Mothers

WITH ATTITUDE

Swimming Upstream in the Food Chain of Childhood
The trials of teasing.

Loosening the Kite String
Hanging on, letting go.

Life Rage
Why do people
have to get so angry?

Waiting for Gas in the "Full Service" Line
When guns aren't so fun.

The Princess in Perspective
A tale of two events.

AUGUST 9, 2002

Becoming my mother's mother
A daughter remembers.

by April A. Cain

One year ago this month, I said goodbye for the final time to the woman who gave birth to me. The same woman who called each year on the anniversary of my birth to tell me how glad she was that I had been born. To say how happy she was that her Christmas party in 1956 turned into a fiasco shortly after its inception. (The party fell apart due to my imminent early arrival and the hosts' abrupt departure.) Forty-four years later, her aging body had finally been overcome by a shocking number of medical problems. As I read the list of her diagnoses during her last hospital admission, I was astounded that she was still alive. Among her many serious medical conditions was a diagnosis of "dementia, Alzheimer's type."

We were lucky, perhaps. Her other medical problems, not her Alzheimer's disease, took her from us while she still recognized her children and had not lost the sweet, effervescent personality which made her who she was. But the toll that her illnesses, both physical and mental, took on me was something I had not expected. I took on the role of her caregiver while she lived independently, and later, when she was moved to a nursing facility.

She began having serious heart problems about five years ago. Her physician installed a pacemaker to stabilize her heart rhythms. A different specialist advised her that surgery was the only option to correct yet another serious heart problem. The surgery was risky, and she declined to have it. Then she developed a gastrointestinal condition causing internal bleeding. This resulted in periodic blood transfusions and numerous emergency ambulance trips to the hospital.

Her dementia began as mere forgetfulness. A name she couldn't recall, or a conversation she strangely insisted we had never had. Then she could not name any of the medications she was taking, or remember a visit from someone who had just left her home. She had often told her children that it was "more important to finish a book than to finish the laundry." But eventually she could not concentrate enough to read at all. Her pride prevented her from disclosing this fact, and she would feign delight in receiving her morning paper each day.

Three years ago she moved to the city where I lived so I could be available to help her. At first she was able to safely and happily live in her own apartment within a mile from my home, as she desired. Two years later she had become such a danger to herself that she had to move to a facility which provided around the clock supervision. Her numerous medical conditions had combined to make independent living out of the question. And she continued to decline until she was unable to live at all.

It has been difficult to understand why have I been so overcome with grief for what should have been an expected transition in life. I suppose it is because I wanted to be her protector and her defender. I was my mother's source of support in a city where she knew almost no one. I tried to closely and aggressively follow the care provided by her physicians and the nursing home staff, and to keep them informed of her needs and concerns. Whenever I was shopping, I would pick up little items I thought she might enjoy, as I do for my own children.

I will never forget the smile on her face as I decorated the little Christmas tree that I placed in her room that last winter. She shrieked with delight as I put on each little ornament. When I was finished she smiled brightly and continuously waved and winked at the little tree from her bed as if it were an animate object. It made me so happy to see her excited and joyful.

The roles had reversed, and I had become her mother. As such, I was supposed to protect her, but ultimately I could not. I was supposed to keep her safe under my wing. But in the end I could not save her. When it became clear that she was dying, we allowed her to move peacefully on to a better place without heroic measures, as she had instructed in her living will. I sincerely believe this was the right thing to do. But it somehow went against every "maternal" instinct I had for her. Later, I calmly watched as the priest anointed her lifeless body with oil, but then panicked as the funeral home employee entered the room to remove her body. I fled in tears as the empty gurney entered the doors of the facility to carry her away. In the minutes following my farewell to my mother, I was transformed from a brave crusader for her well-being to a frightened little girl.

At last I was able to be her daughter again, not her mother. But the vulnerable role of her daughter will be much harder to play than the seemingly strong role of her mother. Facing that I am once again her daughter means facing many things, like the fact that my birthday will still come every year. And the fact that I’ll never receive another phone call in December giving thanks for a cancelled Christmas party.

[Ms. Cain formerly practiced law before becoming a mother at age 37. She is currently a full-time mom and is also a volunteer advocate/lobbyist for issues relating to Eastern European orphans.]

copyright © 2002 by April A. Cain