Lies I Tell My Mother

I lie to my mother more now than any other time in my life.  The nature of these lies is not to be malicious, but an attempt to help bridge reality and perception.

Six months before her diagnosis, my mother gets hired as a dish washer at the local hospital after she can no longer handle the office job she had for almost a decade.  The duties are not as stressful, and the ladies she works with are very friendly.  

During a visit home a few months later, I notice my mother sitting on the couch, the television on but muted.  Her hands lay folded in her lap as she stares blankly at the silent screen.

“Mom, are you okay?” I ask, sliding in next to her.

She doesn’t answer.  When I ask again, she wrings her hands and lowers her eyes.  Her facial muscles do not move; no hint of a frown, no furrowing of her brow, no lines of anger forming around her eyes.  The only readable expression is that there is none.

“Is it Dad?”

“No,” she whispers. 

Her head wags when I inquire about my sisters. Silence returns, her gaze remains focused on her lap, and I really being to worry.  What could upset her this much? When she has problems, she is usually very vocal about them. I am not sure what worries me most—playing the guessing game or finding out the answer.

“Are things going okay at the hospital?”

With that, my mother looks up sharply, water pooling in her eyes. 

“They’re just being nice,” she bellows. Tears finally break loose and fall freely down her cheeks, leaving streaks of mascara in their wake.

“What? Who? Are those ladies treating you unfairly?” A sickening feeling grows in my stomach as I wonder, would anyone accost her, even when they knew she was trying to do her best?  Half a dozen women work in the kitchen with my mother; a few have known her since high school.  In fact, they were the ones who convinced my father that she was not the same person they used to know and he should take her to the doctor to figure out why.

I press again, “Did those ladies say anything to you?”

My mother averts her eyes and gasps for breath.  “No, no,” she confesses.  “They are just being nice to me.  But I’m just so stupid.”  As she speaks the last word, her face collapses into her hands. 

My heart skips a beat as I imagine a scene of bullying and betrayal by her coworkers.  “Mom, did they call you that?”  I question, ire leaking into my voice.

She lifts her head and gasps for breath.  “No,” she replies between wheezes, “but they all know I am.”   Her voice is replaced by sobs, and she grabs a nearby blanket to catch the onslaught of tears.

“Mom,” I stammer, trying to keep my composure.  “Mom, you are not stupid.  Those ladies don’t think so, either.  They are being nice because they know you are a good worker and they like you.  No one thinks you are stupid.”  Clutching her shoulders, I pull her close.  She buries her face the blanket and rests her head on my chest. 

The room spins as I search for the right thing to say. I’m 24 years old; how am I equipped to handle this? 

The words are vocalized before I take time to think about them.  Fighting back my own tears, I make my voice sound as confident as possible, “Mom, you are going to be fine.  This is just a rough time right now, but after a while things will be back to normal.”   

I believe this lie I tell her.  I will continue believing that lie for another two years, and I will continue telling it to my mother for the rest of her life.

My mother loses her understanding of numbers almost two years before her ability to write.  When she begins struggling to find the right words, I tell her not to worry and take her time.  When she shows problems spelling words she knows, such as her name, I tell her that she is just out of practice.  This becomes painfully obvious when holiday, birthday, and anniversary cards need to be signed.  

On Valentine’s Day, she and I sit at the kitchen table, her card to my father unfolded in front of her.  Too afraid to pick up the pen, she leaves it on the table.  The white space on the card looks too pristine for her scribbles.  By now, she has misspelled “I Love You” on so many cards that trying again would be an insult.  I write out those three words on a separate piece of paper and slide it next to the card.

“Just like before,” I prompt, “one letter at a time.”  Using one hand to cover the phrase except for the “I,”  I offer her the pen with the other.   She cautiously plucks it from my hand and holds the cap to the card.  I re-situate it in her hand, but her grip goes slack and the pen escapes over the edge of the table.  

After recovering it, I fold her fingers over the writing utensil so the ballpoint touches the card.  Again, her hand turns limp, and again the pen rolls away. She makes no attempt to retrieve it, so I do.  Finally, I fold my hand over hers, and together we write the words and her name.

“Why am I so stupid?” she whispers as I stuff the card in the envelope. 

“You’re just out of practice. We’ll practice a little, and you’ll be good as new,” I lie.

As the seriousness of my mother’s condition settles on the family, my father and I start conferencing about what we should do.  On my visits home, we try to find a quiet spot to compare notes about my mother’s mental decline and ask each other’s advice on how to handle it and what to expect. 

These whispered exchanges do not go unnoticed by my mother, and much of the need for secrecy stems from her uncanny ability to eavesdrop.  As a family, we do not discuss the changes we see when my mother is around; we worry she will feel ashamed if she thinks we know she’s changing.  Soon, she becomes paranoid; whenever two people are chatting outside of earshot, she moves in closer and watches.  

After every conversation that breaks off as she approaches, she states, “You were talking about me again, weren’t you?”

“No,” I lie.  “Dad and I were talking about his job,” or

--“We were trying to figure out when to mow the yard,” or

--“Dad wanted to know about my car,

--“I can’t tell you; it’s about your birthday,

--“We were worried about: (Grandpa), (Grandma), (my sisters), (my father), (any family member besides my mother), (random problems with the house), (the weather)…

If she believes these stories or not, she listens to my explanations and moves on, hesitating briefly to see if the previous conversation will start up again.

Truths I Tell My Mother

I find my mother sitting alone on the edge of her bed, trying to put on her socks for the third time.  Her fingertips shake as she forces the sock over her foot, only to find the heel bulging on the top.  

“Are you doing okay, Mom?” I ask from the doorway.

She sighs, then rips off the sock to start again.  She doesn’t speak or even look at me as the thing that she knows she used to do a hundred times eludes her now.

I sit a few inches from her and eye the slip-on shoes waiting to be worn.  My mother sighs again and sets the uncooperative sock on her lap.

“Mom,” I repeat, softly this time, as I take a seat on the edge of bed next her, “are you okay?”

She sniffs and continues staring at the sock.  She grabs it, folds it in half, sets it on her knee, then rolls it into a ball and shoves it under the pillows next to her.  Her hands tremble as they fall limply to her lap and her head bows.

“Mom,” I say finally, placing my hand on her forearm, “I love you.”

She sniffs again but still does not look up or speak.  Gently grabbing her by the shoulders, I turn her to face me.  

“Mom, you are an important member of this family.”

When she finally lifts her eyes, they are cracked red and filling with water. 

I struggle to keep back my own tears.  To prevent her from seeing them, I wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder.  

 “We will always love you,” I say softly, clutching her tightly.  “We will love you, no matter what happens.”

She returns the hug, and I do not let go for several minutes.  As my shoulder grows damp from her tears, she whispers, “Thank you.”