For the longest time Mom hasn’t said more than a word. But lately she’s really been trying to talk again. I can’t help but wonder why, and what is happening inside her brain. This is one of those things that I think about daily. What IS happening inside her brain? Of course we’ll never know exactly, other than what the Alzheimer’s experts tell us, which is essentially that her brain is slowly dying. Fading memories and garbled words, the inability to take care of herself and the pain it brings to all her loved ones who simply want her to remember. That’s what Alzheimer’s is.
Be that as it may, she still recognizes me. The corners of her mouth will turn up slightly and her eyes will soften and crinkle. That’s how I know she’s smiling. Yesterday she found my arm with her hand and started patting and rubbing it. That’s how I know she’s still there, still my Mom. Yesterday she was leaning hard to the left and she was very tired, but she opened her eyes quite often, as if she was determined not to miss anything. I talked to her as I usually do, and we sat outside for a long time. Her breathing is slightly labored and she has a very wet cough. I’m told she’s better today than she was on Friday but still I am worried. I bring my hand to her chest and ask her if it hurts there. But she doesn’t respond.
When I’m there I simply chat to her and hold her hand. I ask her questions but rarely get an answer. Sometimes there will be a yes or a no. Sometimes I let her doze while I lean back in the rocking chair and contemplate life. I’ll watch her face and wish things were different. I will think about the end and what that will be like. For me, and for her. I’ll rub her hand and stroke her leg and make sure she knows that I’m there. I ask her what she wants for Christmas and she smiles and kind of laughs. As if she knows there’s nothing I can give her that will make up for all of this. I tell her I’ve bought a lot of Christmas presents already – even though it’s only September and she chuckles at me. I tell her it is September 12th and that is why it is a bit cooler now.
Her body twitches a lot, and her left foot drags while her right foot is permanently bent at a right angle. When we were walking yesterday I had to keep telling her to keep her feet up – and she was able to bring that left foot up some. I noticed that she could still do that, but she can’t keep it up. It’ll immediately start dragging again. So we walk very slowly and I show her the roses. There are two large pots there, one with yellow roses and one with pink roses. Mom can’t focus on things – she won’t look where you tell her to look. So I snip a pink rose off and bring it up to her face. She focuses on it for a second and I bring it up to her nose. Smell it, Mom, I say, smell the beautiful rose. And she closes her eyes and sniffs. But her mouth also slightly opens as if she thinks it’s something to eat. Isn’t it gorgeous? I ask. I think she says “beautiful rose” but it’s garbled and I can’t be sure.
I give her the rose but she can’t hold it. She’s already lost interest in it. I tuck it into her sleeve and we keep walking. But I keep looking at that rose. How full in bloom it is and how soon it will wither and fade away. A new rose will grow in it’s place, a new life in a new dawn. I decide to take that rose home and dry it. Turn it into something I can keep. So that I can remember that everything withers and dies, but something beautiful always will follow.
I may not be able to see it now, but something beautiful will follow. It might be just a small thing, it might be huge. I won’t know until it happens. But I know that when it does, she’ll be smiling down on me and holding tight onto that pink rose.
