"I had a dream... I had everything I wanted..."

Dear Mom,


You've asked several times how the Husbandly One is doing, and every time, I slowly blink, breathe, and calmly remind you that he passed away in November. You're devastated for a few fleeting minutes, tell me you understand because Daddy is gone and you miss him. And then you ask how my husband is doing... again.

You can't help it. You only have a vague idea how old you are (you're 92) and are having a harder and harder time keeping the names of your daughters straight. But since I lost the Husbandly One, I find myself wishing I could ask you how the hell you did it? How did you survive the loss of your husband, the man you'd been married to for 65 years? Because it's all I can do to make it through each day. It feels like I have a hole in my chest, like someone has punched a hole right through me and it's so empty and it hurts. I'm so broken, Mom, so broken and I don't know if it'll ever heal.

I remember thinking that maybe the Alzheimer's is a blessing. Your decline accelerated after Daddy died, and within the year, my sisters and I made the decision that you couldn't live alone anymore. After THO was diagnosed with cancer and I faced the prospect of losing him, and how massively distracted I was, I can see how it happened. You can only spend so much time in a state of perpetual panic before it starts to wear you down. And I'm pretty sure you were in a perpetual state of panic while Dad was ill.

Maybe not being able to remember would be a blessing. You'd still have a hole in your chest, but you wouldn't remember why it was there. You'd get used to it and maybe remember you lost something, feel compelled to look for it, but get distracted by something else and forget until something reminded you of the hole again. I wish I could talk to you about this. I wish you could comfort me. I miss my Mom.


love,

 Jo

Dear Mom,



Now is one of those times when I really, really, really wish I could talk to you, to you, the old you, the you that remembers.  I wish so much that I had you to vent to, and cry to, and... and lean on.

I could tell you that the Husbandly One has cancer, that he's been diagnosed with a malignant rectal tumor and that we're trying to schedule a visit with an oncologist to find out what stage he's at...

I could tell you that, and maybe for a moment, you'd understand, and the part of you that watched your husband go through treatment for esophageal cancer, that stayed by his side and encouraged him, talked him through the lows, and celebrated the little successes might peek through the clouds of dementia and offer me encouragement.

Or it might distress and confuse you, and... I can't do that to you.

But I wish you were here.  I wish I could call you and cry about how terrified I am that I'm going to lose him.  About how I fear he's already given up, and won't even try to fight for his life.  He's already said he won't impoverish us with pursuing treatments and surgeries if he's too far gone.

He's lost so much weight, Mom, and he's sunk so fast in the last two weeks... and I'm terrified.  TERRIFIED.

I can't lose him, Mom.  Not so soon.  I'm so scared, and I don't know how to help him.  He's depressed, and I know his mom is weighing heavily on his mind.  I don't want him to just... give up and die on me, and I don't know how to break through his fears and depression enough to give him the kick in the pants he needs.

I miss you so much, Mom.  And I wish I could talk to you about this.  Because I know you'd understand.  I know it.


Love,

Jo

Dear Mom,

I am SO tired.  Exhausted, actually.  That's what an autoimmune disease does to you.  Well, at least, Hashimoto's does.

If you were yourself, I would call you and most likely whine a little, cry a little, feel miserable, and you'd listen and sympathize for a bit before you'd tell me to get over myself.  Of course, you'd phrase it a bit more kindly than that, but the principle would be the same.

You'd tell me stories about relatives I've never met who felt similarly, and what they did, or how they kept going, how they coped, or you'd try to figure out a way to help me help myself.  Or you'd just let me vent.

I really, really miss that.

I am so very very tired of being tired for no good reason.

I miss you, Mom.

Love,

Jo

Dear Mom,



I sold my first short story, and got the check for it a couple of days ago.  It made me feel like a real writer, and I knew you'd be so proud!

My kids were home when I checked the mail, so they hugged me and told me how proud of me they were.  Then I took a picture of it and sent it to the Husbandly One, and he texted back how proud of me he was, and how much he loved me.

As I walked to my room, I thought how much I wished I could call you and tell you.  I pushed down the sadness that came with that thought, because I had things to do.  But... I found myself thinking about it later, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I couldn't tell you.

I mean, I could.  I could tell you, and in the moment that I told you, you'd be happy and proud of me. But you wouldn't know what it meant and you would forget all about it a few minutes later.

And that hurts.

You gave me so much encouragement when I was small.  You read all the little stories I wrote when I was a kid, read my bad poetry, my fairy tales, everything, and then you'd smile at me and say, "You're going to be a wonderful writer.  You have the family gift of storytelling, and one day, everyone will be reading your stories when you publish them."

Not if.

When.

You believed in me, and encouraged me, and pushed me, and now that I have finally sold a story, and will hopefully sell another, and another, and another... when you should be able to see the start of it all...

I want you to be proud of me.  Even if it is just a short story.  And I know, somewhere in the labyrinth your mind has become, you are proud of me.  I just... wish you knew, too.


Love,


Jo

Dear Mom,

There are a lot of things I wish I could tell you about right now.  I wish I could tell you about your grandson, and ask for advice on how to help get him through the end of this school year, and how to get him through high school.  I wish I could tell you about how your granddaughter is blossoming in college, and how her artwork is improving by leaps and bounds.

I do tell you about her artwork, and I tell you my son is doing fine in school.  Because your short term memory is about 2 minutes on a good day, and by the time I'm done telling you, you've already lost the thread of our conversation.

It's not your fault.  It's what's happening in your brain, and it breaks my heart.

I fully admit that I'm terrified that one day, I'll have Alzheimer's, too, and the thought that I will forget everything that makes me.... me... that I'd forget my children's names, and their faces... I can't bear it.

It's painful to see it in your eyes, that you know you're forgetting, and you're helpless to stop it.  It's painful to see the my mother fading away, and I can't stop it.

I saw you two weeks ago, and I knew when I looked in your eyes that you had no idea who I was.  You rallied and covered well, you knew that I was family, but you didn't recognize me.  I blinked back my tears and kept smiling and chatting with you, and when we had to leave, I told you that I loved you and would see you again.

You stared at me, trying so hard to know me, and you said, "I love you, too.  Like... a bush... and a bird pecking... or something...."

And I knew.   I knew you were remembering.  So I started singing, "... a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck!"

It clicked.  You knew who I was, and when I came to hug you again, you whispered my name and told me you'd never forget me, your baby, your little Jo.

And in that moment, I knew you wouldn't.

So I sang the rest of the song, what my daughter grew up knowing as "The Grandma Song," because you sang it all the time, and for a moment, you were my mom again, my mom who loves me, back with me again.

It was hard to say goodbye, but I did, knowing that the next time I see you, you probably won't know who I am.  I 'll sing "A Bushel And A Peck" to you again, and hopefully, it'll help you remember.  I'll sing to you even if you don't remember.

Because you're my mom.

Love,

Jo