The One Where My Mum Forgets Who I Am

We all go through "seasons", right? Ever find yourself in a really sucky season for much longer than you'd hoped? Yeah, same here.

I think I'm coming out of the darkest season of my life... it finally feels like there is a light at the end of the tunnel again (now, the goal is to get out of the tunnel!) Honestly, there's so much back story to all this, I'll have to write more... but for now, I'll leave it there. Suffice to say future blog titles may include:

The one where I completely end up neglecting my health and wind up really ill

The one where I quit my job (that I love)

The one where my kids describe their life as chaotic

The one where I decide to give up booze

The one where I end back in therapy (again)

Anyhoos, I digress.

It's just been a very hard time for me personally and it got to the point where I couldn't really function on any level.

So what happens amidst all that stress? 

I get a text from my sister and she's worried that my mum is getting forgetful... they'll end up visiting the doctor and doing a few tests. My mum is 67 and only stopped working (as a nurse) in the last few years - so, very capable... very together... always.

A few weeks later I get a call out of the blue. From my sister. 

(This is unusual. We don't call each other unless something horrible is happening. Our family is estranged - click here for the back story, otherwise keep reading)

My mum has had a seizure. A pretty big one. An ambulance has been called. She wakes aggressive, very confused. Everyone is concerned. It's serious.

Fast forward many tests and conversations, and it turns out mum has Alzheimers. Pretty well progressed Alzheimers. She's not technically "early-onset" as she 65+ but you don't understand... this is my MUM. My mum is a frickin superhero. She's borne 6 children. Worked herself to the bone for our family. Carried this family when my father didn't want to and then was unable to. She is the MVP. She IS our family. We don't exist without her.

It's very difficult to imagine your mum with Alzheimers when you can't see it for yourself. I kept thinking that they'd got something wrong. That I would call the hospital and she would remember me.

I called the hospital. It was the first time we'd talked in 2 years. The conversation was both hilarious and devastating. Turns out Mum with Alzheimers is far more cheeky, she really doesn't quite give a shit in the way she used to. She's kind of naughty, like a rebellious teenager. The interaction went something like this:

I started off by saying it was Susan and she said, "Susan? Susan?" And didn’t really seem to know who I was... she sort of laughed uncomfortably and apologized. I didn’t want to say “I’m your daughter” so I just ran through my place among the other siblings.

Her sentences got really muddled and jumbled she said “we were supposed to get together for ourselves tonight and it’s very tiring and very hard”. She was stressed because she had no car, had no money... she wanted to go home but didn't seem to know where home was.

She said "I’ll do my best to see you tomorrow night" sounding like a woman on a mission.

When I asked about my dad she didn’t know who I meant and so I said his first name and she said “oh he can look after himself” she said “I’m 60 now time for a bit freedom” and she starts giggling.

When we were saying goodbye she said she was so happy I’d called so much and that people notice that and that everybody was commenting on how much I had rung (even though it was the first time that had rung her). I talked to her a little bit about her mammy and she said “oh yes, I think about her every day” and I told her that she was the same for us, that she always looked after us and we really missed her and thought about her every day and can’t wait to be together again.

She sounded happy and sweet for the most part (with good dollop of feisty!). 

But not like my mum, at all. Like an imposter.

I reported the conversation back to my sister afterwards. We laughed and cried. Not much later that night, my mum wouldn't remember my call at all. 

I kept thinking of all the things I thought I would get the chance to say to her. We moved to the US 3 years ago and she hasn't communicated with me much since, nothing in the past 2 years. The idea that her silence might be in part because of this is both a comfort and a source of distress.

I took her silence so hard. I tried not to react out of pain, but I reached out less and less. It hurt too much to be completely ignored. Through many family hardships (her grandkids starting anew in the US, Eliza's major surgery, and more) I felt that her lack of communication was showing her lack of love, and so I withheld mine. I harbored hurt feelings. I nursed anger and bitterness within myself. Took it out on people around me.

And for what? She has an irreversible, progressive brain disorder. And I'll never get that time back. I can't undo what I did.

I kept thinking that we would one day sit down with a bottle of wine, and I could tell her how sorry I was. I know in many ways I was a disappointment to her. I know the life I have chosen to lead doesn't please her. And I so desperately wanted to please her. We would hug, and though nothing would materially change (I wouldn't go back to her religion and be what she wanted me to be) we would have peace. That nothing would be left unsaid. 

It feels like a sketch with 2 people - speech bubbles hovering over their head... forever. That conversation is never going to happen.

It's just been so f-----g sad. 

It's been sad to process it alone. My younger sister has been really kind and kept me up to date with what's going on... but they are a pack. Tight-knit. Deciding things. Being good sons and daughters.

And I'm here with my speech bubble above my head, not able to do much. And honestly, with our family dynamic the way it is, they've got it... I just get the updates.

I seriously never thought I wouldn't get the chance to speak with my mum again, in a meaningful way. I just thought it was a given. 

But nothing is, right?

Nothing is.