“I called to tell you your Aunt Betty has passed.”
“I’m the last of 5 you know.”
“I’m so upset about the news that I get confused. I’m the last standing of 8 you know.”
“I don’t know why nobody called me.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Did you go to the funeral?”
“I’m the last of 5 you know: let’s see Mary, you…”
“I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Do you know if Ma knows?”
“Will you send me the notice in the paper?”
“I’m the last of 5 – I didn’t think I’d outlive them all.”
“I love you. Talk to you later.”
I know Mom. I know that you are upset and amazed at outliving twelve brothers and sisters. I know that you just forgot for a little that your mother died in 1971. I know that you just forgot momentarily that I was your daughter and not your sister. I know that you were on a nice vacation in the mountains with your companion and your children didn’t want to call you and upset you on your trip — maybe the last trip you’ll remember until you forget totally. I know that you love me. I know it’s not the last time you’ll call me the wrong child. It’s okay — I know Mom — it’s okay. (It’s really not okay, is it Mom? But that’s life.)
I appreciate the comments. Suzanne, you’ve especially captured the reality of it erasing life…there are more and more moments when I realize how often I would say to Mom: “remember when….?”
That was beautifully written and incredibly touching. The loss of a loved one is always difficult, but there’s something especially cruel about the slow-motion loss of Alzheimer’s erasing your life before you pass.
I’m sorry, mom. Sometimes the best you can do is good enough. And you’re doing your best.
Put’s it all in perspective. doesnt it? 🙁