Awake

While an undergraduate at the university, I visit my parents on holidays.  My mother seems more disorganized and spacey than usual, but I wonder if this is just an aspect of her personality I have not noticed before. 

My father notices a few changes, too, and buys her an herbal supplement that is supposed to improve memory.  Of course, the joke soon becomes “it’s not working because she forgets to take it.” 

We all laugh at the idea and assume her strange trips to the store just for chocolate are a phase.  Her mis-identification of numbers on forms and checks are also excused away. 

For over two years, my family lives with the façade that she will “snap out” of this condition and return to “normal.”

I visit my parents over winter break my last year as an undergraduate.  My mother now starts her evenings by curling up on the couch in the family room and sleeping for a few hours before going to bed by 11 pm.  I spend much of my time catching up with old friends, and one night I wake my mother to tell her where I am going.  She blinks a few times and shakes her head. 

The last time I had woken her to give her information she claimed that I did no such thing because she could not remember.  With this in mind, I ask her to respond verbally.  She repeats the destination I just told her, and as I walk out of the room, she is already asleep. 

In the morning, I ask if she remembers our exchange.  She stares at me like I’ve been lying to her.  She refuses to believe me, and we both walk out of the room feeling annoyed at the other person. 

When I visit again over spring break, my mother’s routine is unchanged.  The night before my departure, I slide onto the couch next to my sleeping mother.  Her right arm props up her head on the arm rest and her neck cranes backward.  I shake her shoulder until her head rolls off her arm and she snaps awake. 

“You were asleep again,” I say, my tone dry.  “Why don’t you just go to bed?”

She blinks a few times and swallows hard, getting her bearings.  “I will in a little bit,” she answers.  “Just as soon as I finish the news.”

The conversation continues on from there for about five minutes, but in a few months I will not remember the details.  Probably something about my plans for the summer or what we should do about graduation in a few weeks.  All I will remember is that it is two-sided, and my mother answers and asks questions with her usual comprehension.

As I pack my car the next day, she helps me carry bags and books, and then asks about my plans for graduation. 

“We talked about this last night!” I fume, irked that she doesn’t seem to be listening to me.

“What? When? I don’t remember talking about that,” she automatically defends herself.

“Last night.  While you were on the couch.  During the news,” I rant as my mother creases her brow and shakes her head in disbelief.  “We had a whole conversation about it!”

“I don’t think so; I would have remembered,” is her only response.

Years pass, and in the process, she becomes a different person.  Though she is still, and will always be, my mother, our relationship changes dramatically (as it does with my father and sisters as well).  Gone is the woman who made sure her brown curls puffed up and outward, and whose favorite color was yellow.  Gone is the woman who loved telling stories but hated blood and violence on television. 

In her place is a woman who presses her palms against her head to make her hair straighter.  She gravitates toward pink at every opportunity and watches medical and crime-drama shows every day.

This transition happens over the course of a few years, and I find it harder and harder to remember what my mother was like before I left for college.  Perhaps this happens because remembering who she used to be is too painful, or I go back and amend my memories to account for the disease and in the process have called my experiences into question. 

Every morning I wonder which memories faded from my mother’s mind while she slept.

Sometimes, when I visit, she falls asleep on the couch as we watch television.  I shake her shoulders gently and tell her to go to bed.  She wakes with a snort and stares at me, fluttering her eyes. In these seconds, I hold my breath, waiting for the small hint of recognition.  After a few blinks, she smiles, ready to take on the day. 

I sigh, relieved.  No matter what color she likes best or how she does her hair, as long as my mother still knows who I am, nothing else matters.