It’s not that I’ve given up writing, but I’m definitely riding the struggle bus. I know this is normal. I’ve just suffered a loss – a loss that I’ve been dreading for most of my life but also have longed for in the last year.
That’s okay, right? To long for an end to my mother’s endless battle with dementia?
It was a whirlwind wrap up to February that hit all the emotional buttons. Within seven days I went from the high of seeing my second book in print to the low of watching my mother’s battle finally end.
I’ve opted to take another week off and, instead of writing, will revisit an article written for the Today Show Parenting page in 2022. The article says so much but, most of all, it says just how long my hero of a father endured his own journey while walking hand-in-hand (as always) with his beloved wife and my mother.
I’ve updated a few points, but the article is mostly in its original form of three years ago.
My Father. Oh, How He Has Risen.
It’s an interesting view, as a child, to witness the decline of one parent and the subsequent rise of the other as a need for caretaking develops.
I’m not sure when it began for my parents, but it was certainly the reverse of what we all had anticipated. My entire life was made up of comical blurbs of what would happen when my father declined (first) and where my mother would end up after he was gone.
Instead, the order was reversed, something that took some time for my brother and I to wrap our brains around.
Mothers are for caretaking. Not fathers.
Yet my father, oh, how he has risen.
My wedding was nearly ten years ago. Pictures from that glorious day show both of my parents glowing, though my mother did have more confidence in using an elevator to go up one floor than taking the stairs. Was it at my brother’s wedding a few years later that we first saw her decline? Mom needed assistance getting to the backyard spot selected for her chair (the only chair) to witness their vows. She didn’t feel comfortable standing even for the short ceremony.
I can’t remember when Mom started falling regularly or when her mental prowess started drifting downward. She would have brain hiccups and then quick, deep dives as if her faculties just needed a few months of rest from thought. It wasn’t until five summers ago, during a big family vacation, that we all realized that the problem was becoming serious. It wasn’t until then that we all realized just how much my father had shifted in his role from devout husband to the devout caretaker with nary a complaint (or hint of an issue).
He never thought to tell us, the kids, that he had taken over the roles of chef, cleaner, driver, and nursemaid.
We never knew that we needed to ask.
When the spotlight switched on, our focus was on getting Mom better. Soon, the conversations between my brother and I also included ways to keep Dad healthy. Is he overdoing it? What if he exhausts himself? Will he ask for help if he needs it? Why doesn’t he ask for help?
We may have become a bit too cheerleadery when our father mentioned hiring someone to do tasks that he used to take on without thought. When he suggested hiring someone to come to wash the their home’s windows, we went wild.
“BRAVO! Spend the money, let us treat you, however you make it happen – you deserve it!”
Our parents never latched onto our whispered requests to move closer to my brother or me.
We understood. They were at an age where a move meant the upheaval of their entire routine and, as my mom diminished, routine and familiarity became more essential than ever for both of them. More importantly, a move also meant an admittance to nearing the end of their lives. A move was so much more than just boxes and a forwarding address; a move meant choosing where they would go to die.
Neither my brother nor I lived within “swing by” distance, which was terribly frustrating. It was also by design. My parents always insisted we live our own lives, unburdened by whatever they were going through save occasional advice. My father stubbornly stood by his vows of over sixty years ago. He would remain by my mother’s side in sickness, in health and in their own home.
And he did. In health, in sickness and, finally, in death.
Any conversation that strayed from that was quickly shut down.
My mother was everything my father ever wanted, even in her last days.
As my mother declined, my father and I started sharing recipes, cleaning tips, and chatting about soap operas. This was always my mother’s role. I could never have predicted his participation, but I was thankful he was willing to entertain my needs for those casual, daily conversations when Mom was no longer able to manage phone calls.
Oh, how my father has risen.
I know the last year has been agony for him. And the year before that and the one before that.
I am my mother’s daughter. I know her moods and impatience and inconsistencies and unappreciative tone – all trickling from the anxiety that she’s likely not even aware she carries. I know she has not always welcomed his caretaking and I know she was vocal about this on occasion. Still, he carried on.
Oh, how he has risen.
Since April, I’ve made that daily check-in call to Dad with a stomach full of anxiety.
Will this be a good call or a bad one? Will I hear about a fairly normal day or of one that pointed to further decline? Was it a day of laughter or a day of tears? Will there be a glimmer of hope? And in which way?
My father will not accept any accolades though he deserves every single one. He has been amazing. Extraordinary. I know that he is exhausted and, as my mother has finally found her peace, I hope he, too, can rest.