Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I spent a few hours with my mother. This may not sound significant, but it seems like a miracle, considering my mother is 99 years old.
My mom and I didn’t always get along. Actually, I spent many years not communicating with her, although she lived in the same small Idaho town where I live. (I moved here with my kids in 1992. My sister followed a year or two later. My mom moved here in 1995 after my father died). Thankfully, that is no longer the case, and we visit regularly.
I visited with my mom every Sunday afternoon.
I’ve been pretty religious about this for the last few months because my mom is not well. When I was a kid, we used to call this “slipping away.” In reality, she is falling into dementia. I’ve seen this before with other friends and family, but it is very different when it is your mother.
Often, our visits are spent in near silence. During this visit, she was pretty chatty. Things were definitely different. She has told me for the last few years that she does not know why she has been living this long. But now, it almost seemed like death was all she wanted to talk about, not in a morbid way, but with anticipation.
She mentioned her father’s death (who died when she was 12 or 13). Then she asked me how her husband, my father, died. She looked pretty bewildered when I explained he died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack 30 years ago. After that, she asked me if I recognized the baby in the picture (her great-grandson) who tragically died before he reached his second birthday.
On Mother’s Day, she talks about dying as if she were trying to wrap her feelings around her impending death.
She told me she was ready to go but lamented that her husband could not see the dancing girls swinging from the vines draping the maple tree in her front yard. The dancing girls have been around her for months now. Obviously, these thoughts were coming from her failing mind. I often feel like she is living in two worlds — and one of those worlds seemed whisperingly spiritual.
She repeatedly called my younger sister by my name and couldn’t remember other family members’ names. This included my former brother-in-law and his son (my nephew), who takes care of her and lives in her basement. “The two guys that take care of me are really good to me. They check on me, feed me, and help me. I’m happy!”
I was glad to hear she was happy because, at one point, she would not go home because ‘the two guys who take care of her’ were taking all her belongings away (or so she told us). It’s sad to hear what goes on in her mind at times.
Of course, since it was Mother’s Day, I feel a bit more nostalgic. I was happy to talk with her that day despite having to maneuver around the crazy thoughts going on inside her mind. It is sad to see my strong mother deteriorating in such a manner. I hope she passes peacefully and quietly in her sleep when the time comes.