Saying Goodbye

“My poor mother, who was both a terrorist and a child.”

Anne Lamott

This perfect gem, from one of my favorite authors, so beautifully encapsulates my eventual understanding of my mother. We spent over sixty years locked in a destructive dance: as her only daughter I bore the brunt of her narcissism and her internalized misogyny. I lived my life in reaction to what I perceived as her reign of terror, wildly vacillating between craven appeasement and outrageous rebellion. Finally, as I began taking baby steps toward healing, dementia changed her personality significantly. It opened up the crack that let some light in and ultimately allowed us a peaceful, loving ending to what had once been our difficult story.

Like Hemingway’s description of going bankrupt, my mother declined slowly and then all at once. There were a few minor but previously unheard-of memory lapses and a couple of uncharacteristic fashion fails, but at 87, she was still a powerful force. Then came the perfect storm: an abrupt halt to her beloved, frenetic social life due to the pandemic; my 93-year-old father’s final decline; and her insistence on maintaining her previous levels of “social” drinking. When my father died, it was as if her mind followed him to the great beyond. Overnight she began exhibiting serious symptoms of the brain bleeds we’d recently learned were taking place.

The transformation was mind-boggling. I was no longer her insubordinate, incomprehensible, inferior child; I was “honey” and “sweetie”, and my opinions were being sought. She now ended every phone call with “I love you”, something she’d previously said twice, in a manipulative pinch, in my entire lifetime. After a while I began to joke that she must have forgotten that she didn’t like me. I was still wary; I couldn’t unlearn what I knew. I didn’t hope for some miraculous, touching scene of closure; for many years I’d imagined that when my mother was gone, I’d be sad only that she’d been so fortunate in so many ways yet was so miserable that she made those around her suffer. The miracle was this unlikely truce that provided the opportunity to rewrite our ending.

The four years that followed were sometimes a bumpy ride. They adhered to what I would come to learn is a fairly common pattern with dementia. Initially, she was mostly calm and chirpy and seemingly unaware of what was happening to her. Her obsession with the telephone, dating back to the days of the rotary dial, went into hyperdrive. She was also suddenly smitten with the color blue (cobalt, to be exact), and uncharacteristically haunted a few high-end consignment shops. Dealing with multiple calls a day and her increasingly cluttered living space was a piece of cake in contrast to our earlier interactions.

The intermediate phase was thankfully the shortest lived. This is when agitation and aggression typically spike, and while I rationally knew that the recalcitrant, demanding, toddler-like person was not the malicious, vengeful person of the past, it could be difficult to separate the two and avoid being triggered. In time, I learned to ignore a nasty message left because I hadn’t returned one of her dozens of calls (she would forget she’d made them, or forget what was said, or forget to tell me something), or to not take personally her refusing to see me when I visited.

Meanwhile, throughout, a different storm was brewing. Despite her “retirement”, the dysfunctional drama she’d directed in my youth was now being revived and expanded by my siblings. Those who didn’t accept their assigned roles were swiftly and harshly punished. Discussion was not just discouraged; it was forbidden. Coupled with a lack of education about dementia, this outlook sadly resulted in zero tolerance for behavior that she now had no control over.

I found myself in the unexpected position of trying to advocate for her. Of trying to spread awareness and maybe cultivate some understanding. Ultimately, though, I had to accept that I had absolutely no control over the situation. So, I resolved to focus only on my relationship with my mother, and to protect my peace by limiting my exposure to the circumstances outside of my control that saddened or enraged me.

The final phase of dementia could be undeniably sad but also provided quite a bit of grace. Her life had narrowed drastically. She was in a world of her own, with the mentality and physical abilities of a very young toddler. Which resulted in, for the first time in my experience, her curiosity about others and the world and a mischievous sense of humor.

Shortly before she died, she was hospitalized and then in rehab for a month with a broken wrist. In a decision that I knew might jeopardize my mental health but would allow me the peace of knowing I’d done all I could, I was with her five or six days a week. This may be one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever given myself. In addition to providing company and answering repetitive questions, I fed her, brushed her hair, and helped to dress her. She was grateful, and funny, and seemed to have found acceptance. The handful of times that she was lucid and present could be heartbreaking, as she expressed her bewilderment at and longing for the family that had virtually disappeared.

The end came unexpectedly and fairly quickly. A few weeks after being released from rehab, she was hospitalized with Covid. Being immobilized by a fractured spine, I was unable to visit. Our last interaction, over FaceTime, left me awed both by her bravery and by the love we were now able to share. I didn’t want to say goodbye; instead, I said “I’ll see you soon”.

Two months later, I’m still saying goodbye. I occasionally forget, momentarily, that she’s gone. Sometimes I’m saying goodbye, with compassion, to the mother whose own trauma made it difficult for her to love me. But mostly I’m saying goodbye, with a real sense of loss, to my little buddy, the endearing nut that made everybody laugh. And always I’m grateful to have seized that opportunity to rewrite our ending.

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Here's a poem I wrote about my mother for her 75th birthday celebration. It’s based on a photo of her as a young girl with her hands on her hips and a fierce gleam in her eye. It reminds me that approaching our relationship with humor was often a gift.