Dare to be happy

Since I have another sleepless night going, I decided to add some poetry reading to my usual remedy of chamomile tea. We heard a cascade of Mary Oliver poems and quotations this morning at UUFR, which reminded me that the perfect antidote tonight could be found in a reprise. So I've been browsing the web, reading poems and letting my mind swim about.

You know that saying: "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!"

Well, my mama ain't happy, not by a long shot. She's been in "the home" for 5 days now and is not adjusting very well. And why should she? She may be demented, but she knows whether she's around family and people who know and love her, or whether she's not. She may not remember my name, but she knows who I am. She told me first thing that she was mad because it took me so long to get there.

In truth, this goes against pretty much everything my motherly heart believes to be right. I don't let babies cry for fear of "spoiling" them. I don't say of a child who's acting out, "Just ignore him. He only wants attention." I have the romantic belief that humans read unspoken communication far more fluently than the spoken. And I can't bring myself to believe that leaving my mom, in her uncomprehending state, in a strange place with nobody she knows is actually "good for her". Necessary, maybe. Certainly it is safer, considering how much she has been falling. But good? That's not so clear.

I've never believed that the most vulnerable people in the household should be made to sleep alone in a dark room while the grown ups, who have a firm grasp on both object permanence and time, get to sleep together. In much the same way, the confusion and disorientation of dementia should not be something a person must grapple with alone.

At the same time, I do know that the strain of being a home caregiver was rapidly becoming too much. I should probably be impervious to it, should be stronger, show some true grit, but I was beginning to lose my grip. The horrors of Alzheimer's Disease occur on many levels and affect far more people than the patient herself.

Knowing that my mother is suffering, do I dare to be happy? Do I allow myself to breathe in relief, shake off the grinding responsibility, patter barefoot through the house with the dog at my heels and sing along with the music? Knowing that my Mama hurts, can I stem the tears, mine and hers? Find solace in watching her morning birds, take comfort in rationalization and platitudes?

This is it. In my life here and now the sun does shine, I can hear the songs and feel the tender kisses. If I wrap myself in guilt and grief, the days will trickle away until I suddenly see that the night is closing in and I can't bring them back.

Mary Oliver reminds me that the pond and the lilies are there, lavishly, every morning, whether I ever dare to be happy, whether I ever dare to pray.