Shrunken Memories

Directly below this church directory picture of my parents lies my 90 year old mama. She looks nothing like the woman in the picture. Smiles have been replaced with involuntary mouth movements and the sound of grinding teeth. The every-two-weeks perfectly done up hairstyle has been replaced with soft tufts of white, dotted with balding spots all over her head. And while the wrinkles are still few, her eyes have little spark of recognition in them anymore.

Alzheimer’s has shrunken not only my mom into something almost unrecognizable but has also shrunken the memories of fun times, mom-daughter chats and outings, and just about everything pleasant and good in my 58 years of being her daughter. It’s hard to remember what once was, as what now is just seems so awful.

Yet as I watch her writhe back and forth, not really sure that she knows who I am nor if I’m standing there beside her bed, I, for the first time ever can see the shape of my son’s nose in hers. I can see the little arms that once held her grandbabies while declaring that grandchildren are the reward for surviving your own kids. I faintly see the woman that my children adoringly call, MeeMee. And I am assured that she will live on long after her earthly exit.

I gaze around her memory care room and realize the many pictures of those who once meant the most to her, now are pretty meaningless. I catch her glance for a few seconds here and there and she frowns. I wonder if she just doesn’t remember me or where she is or if she’s just frustrated while waiting to take her place amongst the angels. And my dad.

My dad. The smile on his face beside her in that picture is so familiar. Even though he went down a similar path of dementia, the years since have finally allowed me to forget some of the awful end of life and recapture who my dad really was. Oh how I loved to see his smile. A smile that Alzheimer’s also stole from me and from those he loved and who loved him.

Today, as I stand near my mama, fighting back tears of guilt, regret and plain old sadness, I hope that Dad knows that I have tried to keep my promise I made to him on his deathbed over 15 years ago. My futile last words to hopefully help him fly towards his Maker—“don’t worry daddy, I promise to take care of mom”—once he let go of this life he had here beside her.

Today I want to promise my mom the same thing. Don’t worry, mom, I’ll take care of all those you love—those who put the biggest smiles on your face—those you birthed and those you rocked in your lap. I want her to know, even though I don’t feel quite convinced right now, that we all will be okay.

Once upon a lifetime ago. You see dementia destroys and robs. But love and memories, though tarnished and trampled beneath the mind’s current grasp by death’s ugly and slow march onward, are only hidden for a little while now. The promise of a heavenly restoration awaits. And that helps dry the tears another day.