I had a dream the other night that my Mom had died. And when I went to the hospital to see her I learned that she really hadn’t died at all. That they had taken her off of a medication she was on and the result was that she was completely back to normal. Her old self. Before Alzheimer’s. I was astounded, and so very happy. It wasn’t a sad dream at all. I was able to be with her and talk to her again and have her talk back. I don’t remember if we actually said much at all during the dream, but what I do remember is just such a feeling of peace and calmness.
I thought about the dream all the next day. I carried it with me. I told my best friend Pooh about it. I wondered what it meant. I thought that maybe it was referring to the deep seated fear I have that my Mom is really ok inside her head, and she just can’t tell us. That she’s trapped, so to speak, like those people we hear of in vegetative states whose brains are actually ok but they are paralyzed and not able to communicate. I realize there is virtually no chance that this is the case with my Mom but still the thought of it haunts me. The fact that she has lost control of bodily functions, eats with her hands and has forgotten how to clean her teeth with her tongue while she’s eating means that her brain really isn’t working at all. But still I worry. Because I know that if this were the case she would be truly, truly miserable.
The last few weeks have been tough – Mom has cried and been teary on several visits. Including one time when I FaceTime’d her and she cried because she couldn’t touch me – she was able to communicate that enough that we figured out what was wrong. Her whole face lights up when she sees me, and she immediately reaches for me, so I know that FaceTime really isn’t a good second option if I can’t get there. In fact, that day I was so unnerved by her tears that I dropped what I was doing in order to drive out to see her. Even though I had already told myself I didn’t have time, that I was too tired as well.
And the time before that she cried as well. Teared up a LOT the entire time I was there. I think always that her tears are not just tears because she missed me, but also because she so desperately wants to tell me something and can’t. A few days later her nurse, Roxie, put her on a new pain medication and that seems to have made a difference. Maybe she was in pain. Maybe when she saw me she thought “here’s Julie – she’ll be able to know what I want.” And then frustration because I didn’t.
There’s no shortage of pain and guilt and sadness and rage within me. But as I sat with her one day a week or so ago something new crept in. A sliver of acceptance. It snuck in across the floor and slithered its way up to where I sat, her hand in mine, and touched my heart. She was dozing and I was quiet, sitting there watching, and I felt it. And I was glad. Acceptance means I can see her now in a new light. I can appreciate the beauty that is still there, the way love still radiates from her eyes. I can be more still when I’m with her, not always trying so hard to DO something, but just to sit, and be quiet and hold her hand.
Mom doesn’t care if I fill the birdfeeder up with birdseed. She doesn’t care if I walk her around the building or down the street – although she does enjoy it very much. She doesn’t mind if I don’t bring a new book to read. I don’t have to find a new way to reach her. Her hand in mine, the joy in our hearts is enough.
Pooh said maybe the dream meant a release from pain and a newfound peace. She was referring to when Mom actually does pass away. But maybe, just maybe, we’re already there.
