The Thief

Joan on her honeymoon

I am watching you wither away and there is nothing I can do but love you. Dementia is more powerful than I am. I’m just a human. It has the power to weave its way into the lives of anyone it wants. It doesn’t care how old you are, what kind of life you’ve lived, how much money you have, or how well-known you are.

It was clever. It snuck in like a thief but didn’t steal anything right away. It waited and watched. It wasn’t greedy at first. It took a little here and there so we wouldn’t notice—a misplaced item, a forgotten word, a memory. After it stole the little pieces, it wanted more. It took your short-term memory, your grandchildren’s names, and the way you understand and interact with the world. It will soon take the last of your independence, your children’s names, time and place, and who you used to be. You’ll forget about me and only know me as the kind woman who hugs you and tells you everyone is safe and sound when you can’t find the babies who grew up years ago. I wish I could put bars on our windows to keep the thief out.

You can’t count on dementia to be the same each day. It doesn’t like predictability, structure, or schedules. Sometimes it swirls you around until you don’t know up from down and other days, you’re just a regular old lady with a touch of forgetfulness who knows the name of the president and season. Every day is a surprise.

You tell me about your day and how busy you were—where you went, who you saw, and what they said. A stranger would believe you, but I know you spent your day traveling through time, and that busy day you had was decades ago. Time travel is exhausting and disorienting. No wonder you can’t always remember when and where you are.

You swear people break into your home and leave food in your fridge and cupboards. “Mom, why do you have eight boxes of granola bars and three family size bags of chips?” You look at me and say, “Oh, those aren’t mine. Those were here when I moved in.”  Cleaning out your fridge is a guessing game.

I ask to look in your purse to make sure you have your debit card. Your purse is full—a brush, three combs, one glove, pictures, old greeting cards, junk mail, and $10 in change. Your debit card isn’t there and I panic. It’s in your pocket. “Oh, I don’t know who put that there.” It’s the same answer you give me when I ask why a watch you haven’t worn in forty years is in your purse.

You are angrier than you used to be. You accuse your twin sister of going through your purse and stealing your money. She is the target of all your wrath. It’s as if a lifetime together has reached its breaking point and sibling rivalry is alive and well. You yell at her and strike out. Your words drip with anger. “Mumma always said you can’t be trusted. Daddy said to act right and come home right now!” You were sixteen when your father passed away.

Lately, is seems like your disease is on fast forward and we are losing you more quickly. I can’t keep up. I thought I’d be ready but I’m not. I look at your face and try to soak you in. I touch your soft silver hair. I wrap my arms around your shrinking body. I want to scoop you up and hold you forever. You are more than my mother-in-law. You are my mother and I am your daughter. You love me like I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine. My heart will break when you don’t know who I am and how much I love you. I’ll never be ready.

One Sassy Mother

Jenny with sassy girl #1

Jenny with sassy girl #2

I’m a sassy gal. It goes without saying that I’m a sassy mom who raised sassy, strong women. I’m honest in a way that is completely inappropriate and embarrassing. My grown daughters share with me the bits of wisdom and advice I gave them during their formative years and I can’t believe my absolute absurdity. I either sugar-coated the shit out of something or told them the good, bad, and ugly. I either told them everything or nothing at all. There was no in-between. There are things I wish I would have told them when they were younger, like my struggle with depression, but I didn’t want them to worry. Maybe they did and I just didn’t know.

A lot of times, I gave my girls a heaping pile of sass with a side order of unwelcomed advice and attitude. I sprinkled in my opinions, observations, nagging suspicions, and worry. When they gave it back, I was petty, pushed buttons, and pouted. It was hard to tell the teenager from the mother. I shared my moodiness and negativity willingly, even though no one wanted it.

I have a sassy sense of humor that can be a little dark and questionable. Does that stop me from sharing it without discretion? Absolutely not. I will say the craziest, most incredulous nonsense just to hear my girls’ authentic, addictive laughter.

If you want to see real sass, I dare you—I double dog dare you—to mess with my girls. I won’t fight for myself, but I will go medieval when it comes to my beauties. I won’t be polite about it and I won’t compromise. I won’t back down until you back away. I will not hesitate to rip your face off, figuratively of course.  I’m not a psychopath.

Yes, I’m a sassy, stubborn mother. I’m a little bit of a handful. But I’m also the mother who encourages her girls to dream, chase adventure, be true to themselves, live in awe of the moon and the stars, love deeply, and love life. I’m the mother who reminds them they are brave, brilliant, and so much bigger than any challenge that comes their way. I champion them, cheer for them, and celebrate them.

I am the mother who loves them to infinity and beyond.

The Most Magical Place on Earth

My sweet Lori having the most magical time of her life.

I spent the last week in the “Most Magical Place on Earth.”  In three days, I walked a total of 19 miles and spent hours that felt like days standing in lines for three-minute rides.  My feet definitely did not feel magical.  If it were possible for feet to throw up, they would have hurled all over Disney World—Exorcist style.  And it certainly wasn’t magical walking around in wet underwear after a torrential downpour.

For me, the magic wasn’t parades, princesses, or pirates.  It wasn’t food shaped like Micky Mouse ears, the iconic castle, or the fantastic fireworks extravaganza. The magic was the pure excitement spread across children’s faces when they ran up to hug Micky or Cinderella and asked them to sign their official Disney autograph book.  These characters weren’t characters at all— they were absolutely flesh and blood real.  Seeing families in matching shirts with their official designation as big brother, little sister, mom, dad, or grandma was magical—bright red shirts with Disney script announcing their 2019 family vacation.  Listening to families laugh together while waiting in long lines was magical.  They transformed a frustrating, endless wait into time together as a family—laughing, reminiscing, debating which super hero is the best of all time.

The most magical place on earth is wherever my family is, whether it’s Disney World or home.  It was nothing short of magic seeing my youngest daughter after three long months away and finally holding her close to me; watching my daughters hug each other like their lives depended on it; seeing my daughter and her daddy watch a Blazer playoff game together in the hotel room; grabbing coffee with my Starbucks buddy; all the quiet moments; the laughter, even at my expense; standing in line together waiting to ride something amazing while wearing 3-D glasses; and knowing my family is happy and healthy. 

I can’t wait to spend time together as a family.  I’m not sure when I will get to see my youngest daughter again in person and hold her tight.  I know it will be magical when I do.  I better get our red shirts ready.