Don’t let dementia steal Mother’s Day from your family. That #mother-child bond is sacred, no matter what’s happened in the years since your birth. For the past 11 years, I’ve had to remind myself of this on every #Mother’s Day. Though not fully present, my Mom is still here and I’m grateful for the life she gave me.
She was always tiny and cute in her whirling skirts and pixie hair cuts. My mom was a good cook but a better dancer. Although she made a mean roast beef, she was happier doing the jitter bug. My parents didn’t always get along, but they found harmony swinging through space on any dance floor. Tall, handsome dad turning pretty little mom on the fulcrum of her high-heeled shoes. Sparkly earrings on a Saturday night with the Dorsey Brothers, Sam Cooke, Doris Day, or Motown. She could dance to it all.
My mother had a lot of rules and her two daughters tried to follow them. A strange authority emanated from her small body. When we made her mad, she cried as she scolded us. The sight of her tears was far worse punishment than an afternoon stuck in our rooms.
Her greatest teachings focused on work ethic. Though she delivered forty weekly hours of effort to her boss, Mom still came home eager to tame an unruly household. Laundry, housecleaning, financial management — she excelled at all of it. Her performance standards were high. My sister and I absorbed that.
Can #Dementia Steal Mother’s day?
I feel that Mom’s efficiency must have cost her something. At what point does #dementia sneak in? How does it find you? Why does it pursue you so slowly, so relentlessly? The disease raises a hundred unanswerable questions. But it’s taught me at least one thing: While dementia may erase their memories, it has no claim on yours. As long as a mother is alive — and well after she’s left this earthly plane — you can commit yourself to cherishing the things you value about them. You can remember who they were and what they did to plant you in this world of boundless possibility.
I have to finish here and cry a while before I go to observe Mother’s Day with my mom. She’s tinier than ever, folded like a paper doll into a giant, deluxe wheelchair. Now I call her my Origami Mommy. She’s cute as ever, nearly silent, yet somehow still aware of the charm she exerts in this world. God bless her and all the mothers silenced by dementia and other grave illnesses. May we all draw solace from the gifts they gave us so long ago.