I tried the same thing three years later when I reached the driving age in Spain, where I lived, and recruited my sailor boyfriend to borrow his friend's sports car and teach me to drive. I promptly massacred a young pine sapling. He married me anyway.
The cycling I have in mind today is of the "going around, coming around" variety. The cycles of life. Beginnings and endings. Reaping what you sow.
My mother, Nancy, has entered a new phase of this very long Alzheimer's Disease journey. As long as she was able, after her diagnosis, she was pretty matter-of-fact and proactive about the illness. She set the example that it was not a tragedy, it was something to deal with as you would any other change in circumstances. She took care of the legalities. She divested herself of the house and belongings, converting it all into the money it would take to cover her care. She moved into a senior living place and whooped it up and fell in love and told everyone she talked to that she had never been so happy in her whole life. And I believe it was true. She voluntarily gave up her car. She dived wholeheartedly into the activities in her community, even trying new things she had been too self-conscious or afraid to try before. She suffered the memory losses, and knew full well what was coming; she had just finished caring for my father through his prolonged trip down the same path. She was 75 years old and had a death sentence of excruciating decline and debilitation.
Alzheimer's is not merely a disease of memory loss. That often seems the most visible to outsiders, and cognitive loss the most horrifying to those in fear of developing it. Though memory blanks are frequently the first clues, that is only a starting point. As it progresses, slowly and inexorably, there are starts and stops, sometimes relatively calm plateaus followed by precipitous loss. The entire body is affected ---- coordination, visual perception, continence, touch, movement, speech. The brain disorder shows up differently in each person, with a general progression which can sometimes be predicted, but not a solid timetable.
Nine years post-diagnosis, Nancy is in the end stage now. Her legs are drawn up to her chest. Her speech is gone and her attempts to communicate come out as drawn out yells and screams. She often appears to be afraid or anxious. Her medical caregivers say she doesn't show signs of pain, but is in some sort of distress, and they are trying to find meds and environmental ways to address it. Sometimes, she still seeks eye contact and smiles.
My mother took care of me when I was pre-verbal. I couldn't express myself except by cries, which she learned to interpret and hoped she got right. I could not walk or feed myself. I couldn't control my movements with any degree of certainty. I had to have my diapers changed. I expect that she would lie beside me on the bed and cuddle me against her body, as I did with my children, as I do now with her. I'm certain she spoke softly to me, sang to me, reassured me that everything was okay. I did that with my children. It's what mothers do. And now, I find, it's what daughters do, too.
My sister asked me the other day if I had watched Mom sleep and seen her lips sucking while she slept. I have. I used to sit with my babies on my lap and watch intently. I loved when their lips would move as though they were trying to speak. "Talking to the angels" some people call it. And the tiny sucking movements as they slept, during those first few months of life, were utterly precious to see.
In many ways my mother has returned to infancy. Much of that instinctive behavior we see in newborns is present again. Often it makes me cry, but at the same time I'm so very grateful to be able to be with her as the circle closes. It seems a fitting end.
No comments:
Post a Comment