Earlier today, we had a rather comical moment in the bathroom while attempting to collect a urine sample. It was a challenge: crouching, aiming, and trying to predict where the stream would land. Picture a daughter trying to guide her mother through this delicate task while a line of impatient patients waits outside, clearly annoyed and fidgeting. It felt like a scene from a classic comedy sketch.
At times, my mother and I resemble a comedic duo, bickering in front of strangers as we navigate the bustling, fluorescent-lit hospital corridors. We’ve become the Nichols and May of post-stroke dementia. After 30 years in the performing arts, perhaps I’ve finally found my true calling.
Did the legendary duo ever grapple with themes of loss in their performances? It’s unlikely; the topic of death typically doesn’t lend itself well to humor. Yet, amid the confusion caused by dementia, the frustrating repetition of conversations, and the exhaustion of a daughter turned caregiver, laughter somehow emerges.
As we wait in the brisk winter air just outside the hospital, I feel a moment of pause. The burdens of brain injury and countless hospital visits seem to fade, if only for an instant. Today, we seem to connect in a way that feels refreshing.
We left the doctor’s office moments ago, and I wonder if a mere ten minutes is sufficient to erase the weight of the doctor’s words about my mother’s medical options and our (well, my) decision to proceed with immediate surgery on a newly discovered issue. My gaze wanders to a drab brick wall across the street, part of a worn-down housing project. It seems bleak, and I can’t help but chuckle bitterly.
“What’s so funny?” my mother asks, her memory of our conversations fleeting. I’ve grown weary of explaining my thoughts; it often feels like an exercise in futility.
I glance at her. At 75, she astounds me with the disbelief of doctors when I share her age. My mother was a dancer and figure skater, yet in the past two months, she has faced abdominal surgery, a blood transfusion, and a thyroid issue that sends her body into unpredictable chills and sweats. She has bravely endured since that fateful November day in 2009 when a hemorrhagic stroke left two-thirds of her brain affected.
The physician at her bedside had told me she might never wake up. Yet, she surprised everyone, blinking awake and even performing ballet moves for the astonished medical staff. When I mentioned her boyfriend was coming to visit, she requested mascara and a hairbrush, clearly recognizing me. Despite the stroke’s impact on her short-term memory, her spirit remained unbroken.
Physically, the trauma seems to have spared her; all that’s left are her bright brown eyes, vibrant red lips, and that gorgeous bobbed hair. Clad in her bell-bottomed jazz pants, she still moves with the grace of a dancer. To an outsider, she appears untouched by memory loss, unaware that she cannot recall her own birthday, address, or even her grandchildren’s names.
I focus again on the brick wall, illuminated by the gray light of winter.
“Mom, I have a confession,” I say.
My mother has always adored winter, perhaps due to her iconoclastic nature as a former figure skater. She often feigns surprise when others express difficulty with the cold season. She thrives on defying societal norms and revels in her unique perspective on life.
Marriage took her from New York City to Los Angeles, where my sister and I grew up under palm trees, experiencing “winters” that barely dipped below 50 degrees. New York winters, filled with the magic of childhood memories at Rockefeller Center, felt foreign to me. In Los Angeles, we didn’t rake leaves or build snowmen, and the concept of cozy firesides seemed distant.
Now, after living half my life in New York City, I confess, “I’m really looking forward to spring, Mom. This year has changed me, and I’m done with winter. I want the sun, the light, the flowers.” I hesitate, feeling a pang of guilt as I wait for her response.
“Me too,” she replies. “I’ve been feeling that way too.”
My heart twists. If she’s shifted from her steadfast love for winter to yearning for the gentleness of spring, what does that mean for her? Is she still the mother I’ve known? How do you measure a person’s essence?
We sit in silence, gazing at the brick wall.
Suddenly, I realize we share the same perspective, both looking forward together. Greeting cards often define a healthy relationship as one where both parties are aligned. Over the past five years, our relationship has spanned a range of emotions: fierce, devoted, and fraught with sorrow. But today, it feels revitalized. We are in agreement, looking forward to spring.
If conflict and disagreement fuel comedy, I would gladly trade every chuckle I’ve shared with my mother for this moment of shared anticipation. There will never be a Nichols and May sketch about two people finding common ground at a bus stop; it lacks the pizzazz.
Yet, at this grimy bus stop, we experience a revival of our relationship. She may not recall this moment, but I can hold onto it for both of us. Did my mother truly fade that November day five years ago? Am I conversing with a remnant of her former self, or has our shared dialogue brought her back? Today, she expressed a new feeling, a shift from her long-held convictions.
Is there any better measure of being “alive”?
In conclusion, as we navigate the complexities of caregiving and relationships, we can find moments of connection that transcend the challenges we face. For those interested in more about home insemination, resources like March of Dimes provide valuable insights. Additionally, if you’re looking for tools for home insemination, check out BabyMaker and At Home Insemination Kit for reliable options.
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