Practice Hugs

 The first two years or so after we visit the neurologist, I convince myself that there must be a mistake in the diagnosis.  As my mother continues to deteriorate, I slowly accept that she will not get better, and in the process a question grows in the back of my mind.  This question looms in my thoughts, growing in salience and prevalence as time slips away with my mother’s memories.  This question is the question that accompanies the destruction brought by Alzheimer’s, scaring loved ones and friends with the constant threat of

Will this be

the last time

she remembers me?

 As the disease continues to slowly claim my mother’s mind as its own, she stops recognizing first her friends, and then her family, in public.  This starts innocuously enough: we are strolling around the grocery store and she walks off with strangers; or we visit a restaurant and she tries to sit at other patrons’ tables.  Outside the familiar context of her house, she has a hard time remembering who she is with or how we know her.

Over the last few months, my mother greets me by standing at a distance, apparently not sure if she knows me.  Once I smile at her and set my hand on her shoulder, she smiles back.  This development should not surprise me, as I know this hesitation is part of the progression, but it gnaws on my soul.  My mother no longer sees me as her daughter, and my family is pretty sure she just sees us as friendly faces. 

There is a feeling of completeness when we are together as a family; my sisters, mother, father, and I, much like the announcer at hockey games yelling “full strength!” when players emerge from the penalty box and rejoin their team on the ice.  Even when we aren’t doing anything particularly important or exciting, a missing member of the family is noticeable.  Lately, even when we are all together, on holidays and Sunday afternoons, the dynamic plays toward someone missing, and I realize the absent one is my mother, even though she is sitting right next to me.  The feeling of “full strength” has eluded me for a while now, and this realization begins manifesting itself from an unexpected rationalization.

I notice my sister draining the dishwater from the sink and neglecting to rinse the bubbles and residue down the drain.  On several occasions I think, Mom’s not going to like this when she gets home, as she was the one who lectured me about preventing rings in the sink years ago.  The thought then immediately shifts to, no, wait, Mom’s here, and she won’t notice, before finally settling on, why are you thinking about this?  You are an idiot.  I learn quickly that if I pick on myself, I don’t dwell as much on the painful realization that started this thought-process in the first place. 

This immense sense of loss is partially due to the lack of connection with who my mother is becoming.  She looks at me and smiles, but I often question if she knows who I am.  She sits to the sidelines when we play board games or watch movies, or cook dinner, and I worry that we are inadvertently alienating her.  I wonder if she feels alone, even when she probably does not know what that means.  Her dwindling ability to understand words makes this even more complicated, as we are no longer able to explain that we love her and are here to support her.  How can we explain this to someone who no longer recognizes her own name?

This soul-gnawing gives way to anxiety as I think about the time she will reject me as even a friendly face.

Months ago, my mother stops giving hugs, even when my sisters and I say goodbye.  We open our arms and ask, “Hug?” but she just smiles and clutches her magazine.  After too many failed attempts to get her to understand, I finally lean in and wrap my arms around her shoulders.  She laughs.  I let go, look her in the eye, and say, “Thank you.”  She laughs again, and then taps her fingers on the sides of my stomach.  I hug her again, and this time she hugs back.  I rest my chin on her shoulder and she pats me on the back.  On some days we do several of these practice hugs before she hugs back, but sometimes she does not react at all. 

My mother’s ending is not going to be a surprise—the disease will continue stealing her brain until her body can no longer function and she leaves us for good.   I know the day is coming when she will have no recognition of me at all, either as her daughter or just a friendly face, but every time I wrap my arms around her and rest my chin on her shoulder, I hope that she will feel loved, even when she no longer remembers what it means.