The Power of Memory

I’m the youngest of six siblings, and the only girl. In addition, there’s a considerable age difference between my brothers and me. In fact, there’s a 22-year age gap between my eldest brother and me. Needless to say, by the time I came along—a surprise for sure—my brothers were really on their way out of the house, or close to it. In some ways I felt like an only child.

There weren’t any kids my age in the neighborhood because most of the neighbors were older and had kids my brothers’ age. Therefore, I spent a lot of time by myself or with my mom. I remember her always being around, if not always being present, if that makes sense. I also know I put her through a lot. I was a fairly active child and enjoyed testing the limits.

One of my recurring childhood memories is of me timidly entering a quiet, dim living room and tentatively approaching my mother as she sat in the dark with her head nestled in her hand. I always felt the need to apologize—for what I’m not entirely sure —but I knew my mom was definitely troubled about something and I assumed it was my doing.

Little did I know, or for that matter little did my mother know, that she was suffering from generalized anxiety disorder. While she had been to several doctors, a diagnosis of generalized anxiety disorder didn’t exist until the 1980’s—several decades after my mother had been living with this pernicious condition.

I went away to college, then further away to graduate school, then across the ocean to live with my husband for a few years. When we moved back to the states, we settled down about two hours—but a world away—from my childhood home. As the years went by, I had two children, went through a rough patch with my husband, and grew further and further away from my mom.

Consequently, I hadn’t seen my mother in about 7 or 8 years when my sister-in-law called saying that she wasn’t doing well and that I may want to pay her a visit, sooner rather than later. At the time, my mom was 91, living in a nursing home, and in the grips of dementia. It truly pains me that I had let all those years go by without seeing her, but each visit brought out a lot of powerful emotions in me—most of them not very pleasant.

Panic and guilt spread through me as I entered her nursing home room to discover her bed made and her not in it. Was I too late? I scanned the day lounge. She wasn’t there. Then, I spotted my mother in a wheelchair along a corridor. Overjoyed, I exclaimed, “I’m so happy to see you!” With a curious expression, she responded, ever so politely, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are.”

Holding back tears, I mumbled, “That’s OK, it’s been a while, but I’m your daughter.” Her expression was blank. A nurse explained it was time for physical therapy. She asked my mom if I could tag along. “Well, I don’t see why not,” mom replied. As usual, she was polite to a fault. As the nurse wheeled her slowly down the hallway, I watched the wheels turning in her mind. It was clear that she couldn’t understand who I was or why I had come to visit. But she was trying her best to figure it out.

We arrived at the physical therapy room. As the nurse set up some equipment, my mother and I sat side by side. She asked if I was married or had kids. Family was so important to her. I told her about my husband, not mentioning that she had known him for years. Internally, I fondly remembered how she had stressed about making a good impression when I first brought him home and how she had walked me down the aisle when I married him as my father had died years prior.

Then, I told her about my son and daughter, who she had also seen several times. My mother told me she had kids too. “I had five boys and then about 10 years later, I had a girl.” She paused. I looked directly into her eyes, expectantly hoping my mother would realize that girl was now sitting right beside her. Instead, she said “…and that was a glorious time.”

In many ways, those words meant more to me than being recognized. To me, it felt so honest and authentic. The nurse began her physical therapy session. It didn’t go well. My mother was weak and disoriented. The session ended early. I wheeled my mother back to her room, gave her a big hug and told her I loved her. She didn’t say it back. She was still trying to figure out who I was. But I was riding the high of her previous comment. What a gift!

I vowed to visit her more regularly and ask her about her life, her thoughts, her trials and tribulations. Oddly, I envisioned her memory loss providing me with tremendous unfiltered insights. Though it was devastating for her not to recognize me, I genuinely believed we could put a positive spin on this debilitating disease and she could regale me with stories about her daughter, her sons, her hopes and dreams. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to gather her insights as less than a week later she died.

While I still deeply regret not visiting my mother more often, I will always treasure our last visit and the glorious gift she gave to me.