The sound of a lawnmower this morning reminded me that there's still life outside these four walls. It reminded me that life goes on regardless of what it looks like on the inside.
Florida is hot and humid as usual, but I've been in life-saving-air-conditioning since I've been here. My mom's apartment has two bedrooms for her and my brother, and so my bed is in the living room right under the fan, so it's quite comfortable. I'm situated directly adjacent to my mom's bedroom with her door open, so I can hear her call. I also listen as she quietly speaks to others she perceives are in the room. Sometimes she describes to me what she's seeing and at other times, she lays in bed silently looking around as if to watch a play designed just for her.
I wasn't planning on coming here quite so soon because I just had knee replacement surgery and I'm in the very painful recovery phase. But when my brother told me that my mom was asking for me, I changed my plans and flew down within 2 days.
What I saw when I came into my mom's bedroom was a small, frail figure of a woman who was coughing and breathing with much difficulty but smiled and cried a bit when I told her who I was. That didn't last very long however, because ever since, she has no idea who I am. When I first tried explaining to her that I was her daughter and she gave birth to me, she looked confused and asked, "Down here?" pointing to her bottom. I said, "Where else?" and we both laughed. She thinks I'm Sharon's sister or friend and speaks of Sharon, who is her daughter, but that she is not here. She often wonders in amazement how I know so much about Sharon. After the initial shock of her not knowing who I am, and crying like a child who lost her mommy in a strange place, I resigned myself to the fact that I no longer am my mom's favorite daughter as she so proudly used to tell others. I am now a nurse or a worker who makes her meals, helps change her diapers and who sits next to her trying to engage her in conversation, while her son who usually looks after her (and who she recognizes) is away for a week of respite.
I'll be going back home on Saturday. Initially, I was going to see how she was doing, because if death was imminent as we supposed, I would change my ticket and go home after the funeral. The Hospice nurse has since explained to me that Alzheimer's patients progressively get worse, but it could take days, months or even years and that there's really no way of knowing. She also said my mom isn't at the point of "active death" yet; it could suddenly change to that point, or take much, much longer.
I thought "active death" was an interesting term. I guess it's like the birthing process but in reverse. When a baby is ready to be born, the mother's body prepares itself to push the newborn out; when a person is about to die, all body parts and functions slow completely down, causing the body and mind of that individual to eventually stop working, ending life. I was in the room when Rachel delivered Cody, and I was in the room watching my dad slowly dying in Hospice. The first comes with great joy. The second, with great sadness. They're on opposite ends of the spectrum, but on the same timeline of life. What we accomplish between the two is really all that matters.
My mother's legacy is that she lived a quiet, simple life and rarely spoke unkind about anyone. There were those she liked and those she disliked, but they would never know that she disliked them. She taught me to be kind, which I still struggle with, and always, always, be the bigger person and apologize first in an argument. I taught that to my children and still use that philosophy when I teach others. It's actually a biblical principle, but I don't think she ever knew that. My mother is and was long-suffering, quiet and very slow to anger - the polar opposite of my dad - who, unfortunately, I took after most. She had many, many friends and that in itself was a testimony of her character. Except for a few stragglers, they have all preceded her in death, and the past couple years have been extremely lonely for her because of that. Absolutely everyone who knew my mom, loved her.
And so, I'm preparing to leave in a couple days and I have no idea how I will say goodbye. I huddle up in a ball and cry like an infant when I think about it, because I know I'll never see her again. How can I wrap my mind around that? Her and I have had a tumultuous relationship as long as I can remember, but the bottom line is she's still my mom and I love her very much - I always have - even when I thought I didn't. I guess I never imagined this day would come, even though I know time and age stops for no one. It's not something you can prepare for like a trip to Europe. It's inevitable, unavoidable and permanent.
My decision to return home was an agonizing one - should I leave or stay a little longer just in case? It's all become much easier now, because she doesn't know that I'm the Sharon she is still waiting to see...
