my mother's robe

My mother's robe

Holding on and letting go...

My mother's mind
They are one and the same

Worn and threadbare
With holes and spots
Dulled by years of use

A source of distress
A source of comfort
Evidence of living while dying

My hand holds it suspended
Hovering over the trash
I release my grasp ever so slightly
I feel its' layers begin to slip through my fingers
I clench my fist and draw it close
Unable to let it go

I breathe it in
Again
And then again
I am wrapped in repulsion and desperation
Wrapped in longing for my momma 
Allowing what remains to cling to me

My mother's robe
My mother's mind
They are one and the same

I bathe it in chemicals
I bathe it in music
Feeble attempts to remove the years

I sew on patches
Closing the holes
But the threads are so bare
They do not hold

My mother's robe
Continually worn for three years now
Has been at my house for ten days
She hasn't asked for it once
Like everything else
It is gone from her mind

My mother's robe
My mother's mind
They are one and the same

tuesday afternoon

I've lit a fire in the wood stove. It feels colder than the 65 degrees it was supposed to get to today. I feel terrible. I'm fighting a headache and... the need for sugar. 

At my doctor appointment this morning she schedules me for a stress/echo test. One where they do an echo cardiogram first, then have you get on a treadmill until you either collapse or exceed the time limit - for me it will be collapse, and then jump back on the table for a second echo. I've had an echo before because I have one of those hearts that likes to dance a jig occasionally, the problem is, it has no rhythm. The general consensus of the cardiologist has always been caffeine intake... as in, "keep drinking it, your heart doesn't like it when you stop." It's a prescription I am happy to oblige. 

I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the thought of the impending tests and as I tell Dr. Ellen why, we laugh for a good 5 minutes. You see, they do an echo with you wearing only a gown and the thought of me running on a treadmill without the appropriate undergarments, well, that's just too much for me too contain... or rather, it will be too much for me to contain. Fortunately, she has the same sense of humor as me.

Arriving back home, I settle in with a glass of Pepsi and a bit of facebook time. Somehow I get hooked on a half hour video on pro-biotics and how there is too much sugar in our American diets. Not new news to me, nor a new diagnosis of all my stomach issues. I wonder when I will change my eating habits, really change for good. I want to change - today - I want to have arrived already with out all the work it takes to change. 

The video makes me want to barf - thoughts of bad bacteria swimming around in my gut... I pour out my Pepsi and go take 2 pro-biotics... how long has it been since I last took them? Have they expired? Do the ones that don't have to be refrigerated really work? Mine are in the fridge and exceed all the requirements of the video, by almost double, I buy the good ones - they still only work if you take them. Should I take Motrin for my headache? Just how bad is that stuff for you anyway? My whole head hurts.

I go sweep the laundry room. Anything has to be better than living in my non-stop, ever talking head. I collect all the dust, dog hair, lint and leaves at the back door, flinging it wide to chuck out all the junk and wishing I could do the same with my mind. I am surprised by how warm it is out there, warmer than in here. 

There is heat to the bright sun on this beautiful autumn day. I feel it on my cheeks. The fallen leaves, an airy afghan of gold blanketing the yard, are being baked under it. The sweet aroma of God's composting process rising to my nostrils. I breathe in deep and think of autumns past. A feeling of nostalgia I can not define, but know exists, comes over me. Not a singular moment in time but rather a lifetime of autumns wrapped up in this singular moment in time... I pause here and let my soul breathe it in, refusing to let my talking head reign.

I step around to the back garden and view my hostas. The "Empress", usually so grand and green in front of the fence, is now golden from frost and hangs her regal head. Bowing gracefully, in humble submission to the seasons of change. The pathway is strewn with the discards of fall and even though the process of seasonal change is well underway, I marvel at the memory of how lush my garden had grown this summer in spite me.

I long to take a walk, I need a walk - exercise - reflection. Too many years at a desk, too many miles in a car, they are killing me. But a walk means going past my mother's eye. She will see me go by - she will hope that I stop in. I don't want to stop in. I feel guilty that I don't want to stop in... that I never want to stop in anymore. I miss my mom, the woman that dementia has stolen. I need to be more like the Empress... 

I shake the rug, lay it back on the laundry room floor and pull the door closed behind me. Trapped in my home, trapped in my guilt, trapped in my talking head. I sit by the wood stove to write, to get it all out, but now it has become too warm...

Today is not exceptional, it's just simply a normal Tuesday afternoon in my life. I think if most people knew the wrestling that goes on inside me, the struggles I have with who I am, they would not be so quick to say I have it all together, that my life is so wonderful. The funny thing is though, my life truly is so wonderful, in spite of me, just like my garden. Me, my life,  my garden, perfectly imperfect and I'm okay with that. Maybe that is the secret to wonderful...

31 Moments in Time :: do you know my son Mike?

An InLinkz Link-up

Liz, Barb, Mike & Chris 1-1-15

You know those times when something is going on and you wish you could just video it all because you know the retelling will not be half as funny as the real deal? Yeah, that's family dinner night 'round here.  And I'd love to tell you a funny story about tonight's dinner because it had some hysterical moments, but sadly for me, it's starting to lose its' funny. I've reached a point in this dementia walk with my mom where I am finding it hard to be around her. I miss my dementia group. They were such a big help in dealing with all the 'stuff'. Our counselor moved to sunny Arizona where I know she is having the time of her life and I am happy for her.

Tonight I found my mom in her usual chair with a photo album in her lap and a pen in her hand. She was writing in the album. When I approached her she asked me if I knew her son, Mike and she showed me his picture.  Under it she had written, "My son Mike".  Then she showed me the next picture and said, "This is my daughter Liz", and this was also written under her picture.  She asked me if I knew the other people in the pictures.  Two things stood out to me. The first was the way she asked the questions, as if I was not their sister, as if I was some random person that walked in the door. The second thing was the notes in the album were for her.

She doesn't remember anymore that I was born on her birthday, an event we have celebrated enthusiastically for 51 years now.  When reminded, she used to say, "Oh that's right, I know that." But now it is utter surprise. I am disappearing from her mind... we are all disappearing from her mind, and she is disappearing from me.

Following is a story from my writings that I never published on my blog before but I feel it so intensely tonight that I will finally share it. The song at the end was included with it when I wrote it back in February of this year. 

I don't dream much but the last few nights, I've dreamt of my mom when she was younger. This past Monday we had dinner together as we usually do on Mondays, and I discovered that she doesn't remember anymore that I have asthma. I've had it since birth and during my younger years was often times very sick with it. They say that for the loved ones of dementia patients, it's a continual process of grieving as you watch the repeated losses of who your loved one is, of what they remember, of what they can do for themselves. Over the last few years of watching my mother go through this I have experienced these losses but this one struck me particularly hard and I have struggled to figure out why. You know the day will come when your loved one no longer knows you, and I have tried to prepare myself for that, but no matter how many things you think of or how you think it will be, you are never really prepared. And even though my mother still knows me, and will for some time I believe, I have been brought to the realization that one day I will no longer exist to her and it has occurred to that I am mourning the loss of myself... I don't know the meaning behind the song, Holding On and Letting Go, by Ross Copperman or why it was written, but to me it is the essence of dementia. Click on the link below to listen.

Holding On and Letting Go

This story was written as part of a 31 day writing challenge. 
To read more of my stories in the challenge, click on my Link. Thanks!