As we get older, there comes a moment that catches you off guard when you realize that your parents have gotten older as well. We aren't stupid. We know they're getting older, but when exactly did they get old? I remember watching my mom play with my son in her backyard one day. I noticed how bent her body was. She can't stand up straight - her legs are bent and her back won't go upright. When did this happen? I wouldn't dare say a thing to her, because my mom is very fun and active. She's a rock n roll grandma! My mom is only 63 - not really that old in the larger picture. As far a mom goes, I consider myself lucky, and so does she. She is enjoying life. She gets to see her grandkids and play with them. She can hold them when they cry and read stories to them. They come over and bake in her kitchen, and play in her backyard. This is what getting older should be for parents.
My husband's mother just turned 57 this summer. She's been in a nursing home for 10 years now. She has advanced MS. She can't walk. You can hardly understand her when she speaks, and when you do figure out what she's saying it makes no sense. She can't tell you what day of the week it is. What month even. She has no concept of time at all. What she terms as yesterday could have been two months ago, and vise versa. She gets very confused, and can hardly feed herself the food that has to run through a food processor first. She forgets the names of our children, and often how many we have. She knows that she has a grand-daughter that was born on her birthday - the highlight of her life - but couldn't tell you what her name is most days, or how old she is. She's can't hold our kids, can't play with them, has a hard time hugging them even. She can't tell them stories and gets confused by their stories. She's afraid of them most of the time. I'm not sure what she thinks they're going to do to her, but it makes her very nervous if they're too close to her.
Despite all of this, she is in there. Inside that mind of hers she knows exactly what she wants to say but by the time it works itself through the channels it's all miscombobulated. There's this heart-wrenching mix of sadness and joy when she looks at our children. It's as though she loves to watch them play, knowing full well that these are the grandchildren she had dreamed of when she thought of her baby boy growing up. There's this warmness to her eyes and her face softens while she looks at them. At the turn of a hat it all goes away. Her eyes glaze over and her face goes expressionless. It's as though she realizes her surroundings- her situation. Every once in a while there's this moment of clarity. She knows everything - the good and the bad. I remember one day we were sitting in her room with her and she looked over at my husband and said, "Jason, I'm without."
Thinking it was an incomplete sentence, as they often are, he asked, "Without what?"
"I'm of no use. I can't even play with my grandkids. I have no reason to be."
There was not one word mumbled. Not one studder. Not one pause.
"We love you, and our kids love you. That's reason enough."
There wasn't much said the rest of that visit.
Pam was still walking when I first met her. She told jokes and
loved to watch movies. Sure, she was a little wacky, but she was
fun. Jason still recognized her then, but not much now. From the
stories he's told me she was a very sharp tack years ago. She was
an administrator for an insurance company. She was the glue that
held the place together. I would have loved to have known that Pam.
The exchange on this visit was very bittersweet. Just when you think she's completely lost her mind, there's this moment of clarity. You're relieved to witness this moment, but then - just like Pam as she watches the kids play - the reality of the situation comes to mind. I'm happy that she was able to have this complex thought, but almost wish she had completely lost her mind. You almost wish she could forget how she used to be so she wouldn't be so depressed about how she's become. Then she would be protected from the moments of clarity that sting so bad. It stings her, and us too. After visits like this we drive home in a very quiet car.
I don't even know what to say to my husband. We're both thinking the same thing, but are afraid to say it. It's a double edged sword.
