Letter to My Mom

Dear Mom

You were glad to see me today, and seemed to appreciate the visit and the fresh fruit I brought you.  We had a nice visit this evening, sitting in the TV lounge and reading a silly magazine together.  And last night we watched that wonderful PBS show about Emperor penguins in the Antarctic, sitting side by side on the bed.  The new medicines seem to be working for you--you are less depressed, and not as agitated.   And it is days like these that make me second guess my decision.

This horrible, burden of a decision as to how and where you will spend the rest of your days.  A decision I have been taking on, at first reluctantly, and now willingly, for the past decade.  A decision I would willingly and gladly share with your other daughters, but they are not ready for that yet.  They are where I was 20 years ago--happy to chalk up your behavior and your outbursts to the eccentric, unpredictable craziness we've come to expect from you our entire life. Gladly using that as our ticket to denial of your worsening dementia.

The days when you are mad, or sullen, or abusive, or withdrawn--those days validate my decision, give me that "I knew it!" smug satisfaction in being right.  But days like today and yesterday--they make me lose sleep, and cry, and look for someone to talk to, to understand.  

And then, actually just now, I realize I am wanting to talk to YOU about this.  I wanted you to hear me, to understand me, to offer me sage advice, to know something was wrong just by the tone of my voice or the look on my face.  

I want to talk to you, confide in you, know you are listening, that you will have wise advice and motherly wisdom to impart to me.  I have always been able to talk to you about just about anything.  That umbilical cord was always there...stretched to the limit, but it was there.  A connection.  A bond.  But that cord has broken.  I cannot ask you for advice about this.  You would not understand.  Or maybe you do understand what is happening to you, to your beautiful mind.  And you push it away.  Unable to deal with the reality of losing yourself.

I want to hold you, to have you hold me.  To tell me everything is okay.  That you trust me.  That you understand I am doing what is best for you, that you approve.  I want you to tell me I am right, that you ARE safer where you are, that it IS too much for me to handle, and that you want me to live my life and just be your daughter, not your nurse.  That you still love me, and that you know I love you.  I want to explain how I am so happy, so blessed, to be able to get to know you again, or finally, after all these years  That I do not regret moving you here.  Not at all.  

I smile and blithely change the subject when you tell me you are almost ready to come home.  And when you proudly announce how well you are doing at physical therapy, I rejoice with you, but I am sad.  Sad because you are doing it all to achieve an insurmountable goal--coming back home.

The guilt I feel is almost too much for me to bear, but I will bear it...for you.

I will put on a brave face and go through this again tomorrow...for you.

I will endure the bad days along with the good days...for you.

I'll play the game of "when you come home"...for you

When you wonder out loud why my sisters don't call, I will lie and tell you they have...for you

I will help guide you through this difficult stage, and I will always be there...for you.