nights

Sweet moments I want to remember

dementia

Sweet moments I want to remember. I record them here so that I won’t forget. I want these memories to cherish, long after my parents have passed on. 

Nights are often hard for my mother, but unless she’s had a nightmare, mornings are entirely different. This morning I went into their room after hearing them rustling around and my father closing the bathroom door. It’s dark but there’s a nightlight shining a dim path to the bed. Mom hears me enter and says, “Good morning!” Sweet and cheerful. 

She’s all tucked in and doesn’t want to get out of bed, because she’s warm and snuggly under their soft, thick comforter. She asks if there is anything we have scheduled for today. I say, my face somber, that there is one very important thing that she must do today. She looks very serious and you can tell she’s wondering what it is. Then I say the name of her favorite pastries that I had delivered that morning. As I start to say it, she knows, and we both exclaim it at the same time, “Malasadas!” She lights up like the biggest, brightest Christmas tree you’ve ever seen and squeals! My heart explodes. I need to record her one day. I need to know that years from now, I can watch that moment again and again.

She’s become more childlike more often as the disease progresses. Sometimes a sweet little kid and sometimes the tired, frustrated kid throwing a temper tantrum, like when I make her drink water but she wants her Diet Pepsi. Do not fuck with her Diet Pepsi!

We clap and cheer a lot nowadays. When she finishes taking her pills. At the happy ending of a Hallmark movie. Any accomplishment, any wonderful moment is met with cheers and clapping. I want to look back at the end of our time together, knowing that we made the most of those moments and that we made many of those moments.

J.H.

When night comes

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Night time soothes me. The quiet peace of night allows me to find myself again, to recharge for what the next day brings. Even more precious now that I’m home full-time with my parents. But for Mom, it’s a different story. Nights are hard. Not every night, but more and more often she struggles with anxiety and fear after dark, especially at bedtime.    

I went into the bathroom to help her finish preparing for bed. She was still sitting on the toilet, bent over with her face buried in her hands, hidden from sight. I touch her shoulder and ask how she’s feeling. Fine, she says at first. I squat in front of her, my face level with hers. A bit of coaxing and her voice shakes as she admits she’s afraid because she’s dying. She’s dying and alone.

What do you say? What can you say? She is dying. She’s not alone, but when she takes that final journey into the unknown, she may well be alone.    

Many emotions run through me – heartbreak, a feeling of utter uselessness, dismay as I scramble for some magical words to ease her fear. She has a strong faith so I speak of God to her. Remind her that he is always there with her. Even when Dad and I can no longer be there, he will be.

Dad and I tuck her into bed. I put on her c-pap mask and gently kiss her forehead, as I do every night. Except I stay there this time, softly stroking her hair while saying a quiet prayer over her. These small gestures calm her and I leave their bedroom assured that, for now, the fears have been quieted.  

As someone who left the church many years ago, and with a lot of pain and anger, it’s strange to find myself saying prayers over her and singing gospel songs. For many years, I would have dreaded doing these sorts of things. Growing up female and gay in the church brought such damage to my life. Even when I started therapy yet again in 2016, decades after I left the church behind in my 20s, I still battled these sneaky, left behind fears (pun intended) even though I no longer subscribed to those beliefs any more.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow over the past five years I finally let go of them. It happened slowly. I wasn’t aware when or as they left. But I’m thankful for it because I am able to pray and sing and comfort my mother in the ways that she needs without hurting myself.  

Thankfully, by the time she got her nightly hugs and kisses from Dad and I said that prayer over her, she was feeling safe again, her heart comforted. She was reminded that she isn’t alone.

And now I’m here in my recliner in the living room, typing this out and feeling the heartache of the fear I witnessed in her half an hour ago. Those memories are harder to lose. They cause a deep ache, one I don’t want to feel. But they also compel me to try harder to do what I can to keep those moments at bay and to find ways to comfort her when they do happen.

J.H.