Pride
This entry takes place two years ago:
A month has passed since our first visit to the neurologist, and our family is, understandably, devastated by the news. We do not talk about it, and we do not discuss it with my mother. She has started taking new prescription pills though they don’t seem to be helping. The doctor warned that they would take a few months to kick in, but I still think she’s been misdiagnosed.
Winter is winding down and with it the last semester of my graduate program. I spend Spring Break at my parents’ house filling out my mother’s application for Social Security disability. The paperwork is overwhelming, and I stop several times to call the nearest office for questions and clarifications. I am still not convinced that Alzheimer’s is the problem, and in my mind, applying for Disability is the same as confirming defeat. Somehow, by “settling” on the disease, I am letting my mother down. I break into tears whenever no one is looking.
Also slowing down the application process is the almost-constant research needed to find jobs, dates of employment, education history, doctor visits, etc., for the woman sitting in the next room who does not remember specific names or activities.
In the midst of this hassle, my mother eyes me at the computer and studies what I am doing. She asks why her name is on the papers scattered on the table and why my father and I don’t include her in our conversations. I tell her that I am filling out some insurance forms to help Dad.
She takes a step closer and looks away. “I used to do this,” she says, her voice low but confident. “I can do this, I just had that bad time when I got really depressed.” She makes eye contact with me and swallows the rest of her words.
I stare at her, praying as hard as I can that that is true. I do not confess what I am doing, I do not tell her she has Alzheimer’s, I do not explain what that means for her.
She waits for a minute then starts to walk away.
“You’re going to be okay, Mom,” I whisper.
***
A few weeks later I am back at my parents’ house and doing some last-minute editing of my master’s thesis. I am still not convinced that Alzheimer’s is taking over my mother’s brain, and, as a family, we still do not talk about it.
My mother has always enjoyed reading, especially things written by her daughters. When my sisters and I were in grade school, she always offered to proofread our writing, and even when I got to college she would be offended if I did not let her view final drafts of big projects.
When I visit this time, she is struggling through an Ellen DeGeneres book. The publication consists of small, humorous vignettes, so it is easier for her to manage than a full-length novel. Secretly, I wonder if this is the last book she will ever read. I debate whether or not to show her my pages—I don’t want her to feel more left out than she already does, but an eighty-page research paper might make her more aware of her new limitations.
My father wades through the thesis out of a sense of parental duty, and my mother picks it up when he’s done. I watch with interest as she begins. The hope that she is doing better quickly diminishes as she spends ten minutes looking at the table of contents, and then another twenty on the one-page introduction. Unwilling to face this new reality, I seek solitude in the darkest corner of the house.
When I reemerge a few hours later, she hands me the stack of papers. “It looks good,” she says.
“Oh,” I sigh, unsure how to respond. I appreciate her effort, but doubt if the project made sense for her. The likelihood that this is the last of my work she will read forces me to be even more grateful that she even attempted it.
“I got most of the way through, though I didn’t have time to finish the last chapter.” She sounds apologetic, but this is very exciting news for me.
“Oh,” I draw out the word with an enthusiastic crescendo as her words process in my brain. My mother read my work. I want to shout—to no one in particular—look at what my mother did! She’s not taking this Alzheimer’s stuff lying down. For the first time in weeks, I feel like smiling.
“I just added a comma in Chapter 3,” she says. The words are spoken quickly, like they are meant to be brushed aside. Instead, they hit me and stick in my chest. Air catches in my throat as I blink back water pooling in my eyes.
“That's really great,” I beam.
The comma, small in comparison to the thousands of characters encompassed in the work, is one of my most treasured. That comma made me proud of my mother. Can I be proud of her for such a thing as that, a comma?
A month has passed since our first visit to the neurologist, and our family is, understandably, devastated by the news. We do not talk about it, and we do not discuss it with my mother. She has started taking new prescription pills though they don’t seem to be helping. The doctor warned that they would take a few months to kick in, but I still think she’s been misdiagnosed.
Winter is winding down and with it the last semester of my graduate program. I spend Spring Break at my parents’ house filling out my mother’s application for Social Security disability. The paperwork is overwhelming, and I stop several times to call the nearest office for questions and clarifications. I am still not convinced that Alzheimer’s is the problem, and in my mind, applying for Disability is the same as confirming defeat. Somehow, by “settling” on the disease, I am letting my mother down. I break into tears whenever no one is looking.
Also slowing down the application process is the almost-constant research needed to find jobs, dates of employment, education history, doctor visits, etc., for the woman sitting in the next room who does not remember specific names or activities.
In the midst of this hassle, my mother eyes me at the computer and studies what I am doing. She asks why her name is on the papers scattered on the table and why my father and I don’t include her in our conversations. I tell her that I am filling out some insurance forms to help Dad.
She takes a step closer and looks away. “I used to do this,” she says, her voice low but confident. “I can do this, I just had that bad time when I got really depressed.” She makes eye contact with me and swallows the rest of her words.
I stare at her, praying as hard as I can that that is true. I do not confess what I am doing, I do not tell her she has Alzheimer’s, I do not explain what that means for her.
She waits for a minute then starts to walk away.
“You’re going to be okay, Mom,” I whisper.
***
A few weeks later I am back at my parents’ house and doing some last-minute editing of my master’s thesis. I am still not convinced that Alzheimer’s is taking over my mother’s brain, and, as a family, we still do not talk about it.
My mother has always enjoyed reading, especially things written by her daughters. When my sisters and I were in grade school, she always offered to proofread our writing, and even when I got to college she would be offended if I did not let her view final drafts of big projects.
When I visit this time, she is struggling through an Ellen DeGeneres book. The publication consists of small, humorous vignettes, so it is easier for her to manage than a full-length novel. Secretly, I wonder if this is the last book she will ever read. I debate whether or not to show her my pages—I don’t want her to feel more left out than she already does, but an eighty-page research paper might make her more aware of her new limitations.
My father wades through the thesis out of a sense of parental duty, and my mother picks it up when he’s done. I watch with interest as she begins. The hope that she is doing better quickly diminishes as she spends ten minutes looking at the table of contents, and then another twenty on the one-page introduction. Unwilling to face this new reality, I seek solitude in the darkest corner of the house.
When I reemerge a few hours later, she hands me the stack of papers. “It looks good,” she says.
“Oh,” I sigh, unsure how to respond. I appreciate her effort, but doubt if the project made sense for her. The likelihood that this is the last of my work she will read forces me to be even more grateful that she even attempted it.
“I got most of the way through, though I didn’t have time to finish the last chapter.” She sounds apologetic, but this is very exciting news for me.
“Oh,” I draw out the word with an enthusiastic crescendo as her words process in my brain. My mother read my work. I want to shout—to no one in particular—look at what my mother did! She’s not taking this Alzheimer’s stuff lying down. For the first time in weeks, I feel like smiling.
“I just added a comma in Chapter 3,” she says. The words are spoken quickly, like they are meant to be brushed aside. Instead, they hit me and stick in my chest. Air catches in my throat as I blink back water pooling in my eyes.
“That's really great,” I beam.
The comma, small in comparison to the thousands of characters encompassed in the work, is one of my most treasured. That comma made me proud of my mother. Can I be proud of her for such a thing as that, a comma?
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