What remains when a loved one slowly fades away.

by Tammy Darling

Like a sunflower bending low, worn and withered after a long, hot summer, my dementia-ridden mother is still so beautiful to gaze upon. Her words are gone now, along with her ability to do anything for herself.

But her inner and outer beauty remain. Christ in her still shines through.

Fallen leaves

With every lap around the sun, my mother’s “memory leaves” have fallen one by one. And like pieces of a shattered heart falling bit by broken bit, I feel her inner pain. After thirteen long years, that’s a lot of leaves, a lot of memory, gone . . . just gone.

And I can’t pick up a fallen leaf and reattach it to the mighty oak from which it fell. Oh, if only I could!

Deep grief

Though my mother has not yet died, in many ways, she has. I cannot communicate with her. I can’t see her smile, hear her voice, or even know if she realizes who I am.

The grieving of a life that’s unable to be truly lived is real. That grief cuts deep, even now, while she is still alive.

Understanding

I must look at my mother more closely now to understand what she is going through. I don’t want to miss a thing: the grimace that is the only indication of pain or discomfort, the slight attempt at a smile, the watery eyes that never quite release a single tear.

I haven’t seen my mother cry in years. Her lack is my gain, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.

Therapeutic writing

I’m a writer by trade, but whenever I’m going through hard times, I also write . . . for me.

I once self-published a book that was meant for my eyes only. Writing that book carried me through the hardest pain I’ve ever faced.

But with this, I delayed. I thought writing about my mother would be more than I could handle emotionally, and so I put it off for some time. Turns out, it’s been quite therapeutic, and healing.

Feeling pain

I don’t need to run from reality; I need to feel what is. Burying my own emotions is a death in itself, but I want to live, to fully embrace the pain and dance with the sorrow.

To feel is to live. Emotions are a God-given gift.

Hidden joy

While the suckiness of dementia is real, I refuse to allow it to be all I notice when I look at my mother.

If all I ever see is the sadness of the situation, I’ll miss the joy: of memories past, of the incredible softness of her 78-year-old skin as I sit and simply hold her hand, of each precious remaining moment I have with her.

Mama

It’s interesting to me that after all these years, my personal name for my mother has changed from Mom to Mama. Mama seems more vulnerable, a reflection of how I feel, an expression of a need that can no longer be fulfilled by her.

Mama is the hug I need, the reassurance I crave. Mama is my little girl self, crying out for what can no longer be.

Overcomer

Life lingers long for my mother. Thirteen years and counting is a long time to be trapped in a mind that doesn’t work as it should, as it needs to, as she wants it to.

My mother is a true overcomer, a fierce warrior, and an inspiration to me in so many ways, even now.

Memory search

How much good from my childhood can I find?

My mother’s loss of memory initiated my own search . . . for the good memories. It’s easy to remember all that was wrong with my childhood, but when my mother is languishing before me, my priorities have shifted.

Suddenly, I’m drawn to the Philippians 4:8 aspect of my childhood, and beyond — to find whatever is true, noble, pure, right, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy. Perhaps this is one of the final gifts my mother will have given me as this chapter of her life closes.

New perspective

Memory lost for one becomes cherishment for another. I nurture the memories of years past and hold them close. I didn’t have an ideal childhood, but I did have a mother who loved the Lord and did her best.

What I didn’t see as a child, I now appreciate as an adult who has been through the fire herself.

Troubled past

My mama was the second youngest of twelve children. Her father was an alcoholic and abusive on multiple levels. She never spoke much of her childhood; I do not know the full extent of her trauma.

Though my mother was a God-fearing Christian woman for as long as I can remember, she was unable to nurture her own children. She was not an affectionate parent (neither was my father). I remember very few “I love you” statements or even hugs throughout my years.

She didn’t play with me (“That’s what your siblings are for”). Sometimes her own unhealed trauma came out on us kids. I think the lack of nurturing affected me the most.

Redemption

But now, I love nothing more than to sit and hold my mama’s hand. Such a little thing, but something I never had growing up. I caress her face. I rub her shoulders and back.

But most of all, it’s the feel of her skin that I love the most. Redemption comes in myriad ways.

True home

Dementia sucks, that much is clear. But thankfully, all this body and mind stuff is not transferable to the next reality. My mother’s true home awaits her. Jesus said so in John 14:2, 3.

And on that day, I, too, will rejoice because my mother will be fully alive, healed and whole. And as she dances with Jesus, I will dance with my memories, for her life hasn’t ended; it’s only just begun.

What endures

I once read that death ends a life, not a relationship. I couldn’t agree more. That statement brings me such peace amid a wistfulness for what was.

My mother is still alive, though in many ways not living. But our relationship — that goes on forever. Nothing, not dementia and not even death, can take that away. Memories may fade and life may end, but love neither fades nor ends.

Tammy Darling has published approximately 1,500 articles and three books. She lives in Cassville, PA.