Beginnings

Leaving for the hospital--Mom's day three of Amyloid Angiopathy. No Movement in her body, but for her face. A thinning of the walls in the arteries in the brain, something that happens over time--this is who to blame. So, as these walls get thinner, the chances of an artery bleeding into the brain gets greater, so soon you have the possibility of a brain bleed--known as a "wet stroke." Mom's had many of these in the last two years, but never this bad, never this debilitating.

Mom can talk with difficulty, she can smile but not often....but then there's also the tears. Sometimes pain, sometimes sadness. The tears are large and sloppy, and all I want to to is wipe them clean. Erase their existence.

Took a picture today of Mom and me and my sister-in-law--we are in Overlake Hospital (Bellevue, WA ) and then later at the skilled nursing facility we chose, Mirabella (Seattle, WA). Can't help but compare these two images to the photo (posted in this blog) of the three of us lulled by the sun and the sea at Roach Harbor, San Juan Island just a few years ago. What were we doing? What were we thinking? The future wasn't on our minds. Such the obvious point these photos present--either that we have changed or aged....or that time brings the unexpected. Yes, obvious....and yet the experience of these griefs is anything but obvious. It's everything about pain and vulnerability.

An unbelievable effort to get out of Overlake--social worker was overloaded and couldn't get the paperwork done, not that Mom really felt the difference. Just the interminable act of waiting and more waiting, never being sure of the end result. At least this is something I can do for her, with her. There seems so little now.

This afternoon...
So there we all are--my brother Eric, sister-in-law Terry, myself, Mom and Mom's caregiver, Lorna: adrift in Moms' room at the Mirabella. Our room is quiet, but for our conversation which works in spurts. We talk about nothing important--my sister-in-law's children, Mom's "boyfriend" Brian on King 5 News, the Michael Jackson extravaganza. And then the hallways...always wide and always empty, like how many bodies could possibility fill up these thoroughfares, these passages between lost souls? What could the owner have been thinking making these walls this wide and lonely?

When we met Mom with the cabulance later this afternoon at her new "home" what was there to say. "Hey, Mom, welcome to your new world?" I mean, she's a smart woman, so who are we fooling with our optimism?

Can I remember Mom as she was 5 years ago? A sharp, intelligent, well-educated woman with an amazing sense of style. For years she worked at Frederick 'N Nelson, as a fashion marketer. Later, she helped run my father's interior design business. And then the Alzheimer's set in. This woman I kissed goodbye tonight--this frail, seeping woman--seems to bear no relation to My Mother. Can I claim her as my own? And what if I do? What if I can't? My lips left pink quarter moons on her cheeks, her forehead, her neck. I wanted those lips, those lipstick moons there always. Mom here always. No matter how painful. But I can't, can I--nether wish nor expect.

She's just there, with Lorna tonight, alone in her small room. Tears sometimes present, laughter rarely accounted for. Pain is to be expected. And tomorrow is still here, right after today ends. Side by side, as if one cannot be without the other.

Deeply, my mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--