The Journal

thinking, writing, learning

Learning to Live With the Loss

Anne Lamott said missing someone who has died is much like a broken leg that doesn’t heal well. You simply learn to live with the limp. Since my mom’s death on January 28, I’ve been learning to do that. Part of me doesn’t feel quite right, though the healing is happening. I still ask myself how she could have gone from being fairly healthy in this photo taken in December to dying at the end of January. But I am so grateful that if it was her time, she left us before this virus crisis.

She would not have understood why I couldn’t visit, why she would be restricted to her room to avoid contact with other residents, why I couldn’t be there to hold her hand. But I was there.

She wanted her ashes to be mixed with Dad’s, so I have the urn in my home. I can walk by and pat it, saying hello to them and staying close. Once we bury them together in Rhode Island this summer in a cemetery near their beloved river, I will miss them. I may grieve all over again. But I am preparing myself for what it will mean to no longer have them in my life.

Sabra Ely Carter, David Giles Carter

The Waiting

I thought I would be ready for this.

After being with my father during his death, and the long grieving process I’ve gone through with my mother during her Alzheimer’s, I was sure I could handle this.

But losing a parent is never easy, regardless of circumstances or relationship.

We are keeping vigil, watching Mom slip away from us. She has wanted this for some time, so I am settled and accepting. Yet, there are moments when I kiss her forehead or squeeze her hand that I am fully aware it may be the last time.

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri

 

Sleepless in Fredericksburg

Why is that light on? Have I had dinner yet? Is today Christmas? Did you ever know your Dad?

It seems that Mom is all questions these days. Her Alzheimer’s is slow-growing. Is that even a way to describe it? We first noticed changes in her as Dad was dying ten years ago, though we attributed much of it to grief and stress. A year later, we realized she had changed, and the long journey began.

These days, she does little for herself. Nurses provide her meds and daily care. Her food is prepared and served at regular times. She has given up solitaire, church, even friends. I visit nearly every day, volunteer — exercise, anyone? — and keep her room organized and supplies updated. Is it enough? Probably not in her mind.

That means I am often waking at 3am wondering if she is ok. Is her bed dry? Is she bored? Will it upset her if we bring her to the house for the holidays? And truth be told, do I even want to?

Still, I am glad she knows me. I appreciate (most of the time) events with her like the party at the assisted living facility where she now lives. She has a “boyfriend” who sits at her dining table, though she forgets about him once he returns to his own room. Soon, she will struggle with knowing who I am. She will retreat into herself.

I wonder if I’ll start sleeping again.

 

Begin Again

I take pictures of sunrises and sunsets. Often. I never tire of the oranges, pinks, and blues as they blend into one another.
When I’ve had a rough week (or day), I find one of the photos and stare at it, remembering how I felt when the colors surrounded me and my breathing changed. This morning I searched for this one– a day at the beach, a slight wind in the air. As I process troublesome thoughts, I know this morning is also a moment in time, and it will pass. There will be other gorgeous sunrises, signaling a new day, another chance.

Begin again.

Time Away but Back to Reality

There’s nothing like getting away. Far away. A river cruise to France helped me relax. It was hard to come home and find that Mom had worsened, had become less “with it,” was more confused. I need to shift my thinking now, need to figure out how to deal with this shift in her thinking. Alzheimer’s is a horrible illness. On one had it’s predictable. On the other, it’s devastating in its path to a complete break with reality. I keep fooling myself, thinking I can do something or fix her. But it’s coming. It’s coming.