Dear Mom, You Forgot Me

Before he died, dad said that I had not yet grieved for your passing. That isn't true, I grieved for the 2 years you both lived with Linda and me -- long before your body died, I mourned your parting when you stopped recognizing me as your son, or even remembering my name.

I especially remember the last year when you barely acknowledged me; I was like a low patch of fog drifting through your already overcast mind. The only bright spot in your day was when dad was in the room. You would settle down your restless wandering and sit on the sofa across the living room from him. Often you commented on what dad was watching on television, sometimes explaining how you had been friends with "that man" (the news presenter) when we lived in New York.

You had changed so much from who you were. It's hard to put into words what that feels like--to see someone who is a totally different person than who you knew them to be, and you also seeing me as a complete stranger. It came across all the more painful when dad would talk with you about me, your son, and you would shout out in surprise, "I have a son?!" and still you couldn't see me sitting there at the table with the two of you.

It took 6 months for me to get dad to see that you needed specialized care--long after his own health had deteriorated to where he couldn't give you the care and safety you needed. He still resisted even after the times you wandered off into the neighborhood while he dozed on the porch. I am thankful that our Great Dane, Dino, walked with you; it's like he knew you needed watching out over.

When I visited you in the memory care unit, the sense of loss was even stronger because, even though you could see me, I was just another person in this place where you had a small living apartment and things to do during the day. I was pleased to learn that you very much enjoyed the singing and dancing activities--kind of the ring leader of the forgetful troupe that had become your family in care.

It's been three years since you passed away, and there are still days when I find myself missing you terribly. Your mind failed you in the end, so much so that all you spoke about was your childhood memories--sometimes you even thought you were living just after those times. I, anyway, remember the loving, sometimes kooky, mother you were to me throughout my childhood and teenage years. My friends still refer to you as Mom because you welcomed them all into our home, as well as chaperoned the youth group retreats, led hikes in New Hampshire's mountains, and were always at the ready to chauffeur us around in that yellow VW van.

Your memory loss was a blessing at times as well, when I remembered my angry and uncaring phases, blaming you and dad for things I myself wouldn't take responsibility for. Despite me, you remained a caring and delightful person and a close companion to dad.

The last two weeks were the final punctuation in your relationship with us. Your emotional health declined first and when they admitted you to the hospital, hospice caregivers came, looked at the bottom of your feet (like reading a weather vane), and declared you wouldn't be returning to your bed in the memory care unit. I watched you that day, mouthing to us or someone else you saw in the room, staring up at a point where the wall and the ceiling met, one arm raised, either pointing or reaching out. It was a sad, strange time; almost holy.

When I found out that you had passed away in the night, I must confess that I was neither relieved nor sadder than I had been the previous two years. You forgot me long before you died. This is the wound that will never heal--I never said a proper goodbye to you because that person had left me before it seemed appropriate to say it. I find no comfort in this and probably never will.

I love you, Mom. Rest in peace where you are because there isn't any here.