Earlier today, we shared a rather comical moment in the bathroom while attempting to collect a urine sample. It’s a challenging task—crouching, aiming, and guessing where the stream will land. Add a daughter trying to direct her mother’s flow amidst a line of impatient patients outside, and it’s a scene straight out of a Mike Nichols and Elaine May comedy skit.
At times, my mother and I feel like a comedic duo, bickering in front of strangers under harsh fluorescent lights, embodying the Nichols and May of post-stroke dementia. Who would have thought I’d find my place in the entertainment world after 30 years of performing?
Did Nichols and May ever tackle the heavy theme of loss in their acts? Probably not; discussions of death rarely evoke laughter. Yet, amidst the circular arguments triggered by dementia and the impatience of a caregiver, absurdity often unfolds.
As we sit waiting for the bus just outside the hospital on a frigid winter day, I experience a fleeting moment of stillness. For just an instant, the weight of brain injury and countless hospital visits seems to have vanished. Today, our interaction feels unexpectedly smooth. I sense the stage is set for something meaningful.
Just 10 minutes earlier, we exited the doctor’s office where I wrestled with the gravity of the decisions made regarding my mother’s health. I glance at a grim brick wall across from the bus stop, a housing project that reflects my inner turmoil.
“What’s so funny?” my mother inquires. I’ve grown weary of explaining my thoughts to her, a task that often feels futile.
I look at her—75 years old, a fact I delight in sharing with doctors, relishing their astonishment. My mother was once a dancer and figure skater, but now she’s endured abdominal surgery, a blood transfusion, and struggles with a moody thyroid that leaves her in a constant state of discomfort. Her life changed forever after that fateful day in November 2009, when a hemorrhagic stroke claimed two-thirds of her brain.
The doctor had informed me she’d likely never awaken. To my surprise, she opened her eyes two days later, performing ballet steps for the astonished medical team. When I told her her boyfriend was coming, she asked for makeup and a hairbrush. In that moment, she defied the odds, but the stroke left her short-term memory largely unrecoverable.
Despite her frail appearance, the physical toll of the trauma seems minimal. Her vibrant brown eyes, ruby lips, and stylish bobbed hair still exude her former grace. You would never guess she struggles to remember her birthday, address, or even her grandchildren’s names.
“I have a confession, Mom,” I say, breaking the silence as we sit in the cold light.
She has always adored winter, perhaps reveling in being contrary. As a skater, she thrives in the cold, often feigning shock at others’ dislike of the season. Having spent years in sunny Los Angeles, where my sister and I grew up under palm trees, I’ve come to appreciate the authentic winters of New York City. I confess, “I’m really looking forward to spring. Something has changed within me this year—I want sunlight and flowers.”
“Me too,” she replies, echoing my sentiments.
My heart takes a hit. If her fierce love for winter has faded, what essence of my mother remains? Is she still the same person? How do we define identity in the face of such change?
We sit in silence, gazing at that uninviting wall. Suddenly, I realize we’re aligned in our outlook. It’s a healthy dynamic—something our relationship has struggled to be in recent years. We are both looking forward to spring, a sign of our reconnection.
While discord often fuels comedy, I would trade every moment of laughter for this newfound harmony. You won’t find a Nichols and May sketch about two people agreeing at a bus stop; that’s just too dull. However, in this moment, I feel a rebirth of our bond at the icy bus stop in late January.
She may not recall our shared moment, but that’s okay; I can keep this secret for the both of us.
Did my mother pass away that day five years ago? Am I merely interacting with a specter? Or has our repetitive conversations brought her back in some way? Today, she expressed a new desire, contradicting years of steadfast tradition.
What better definition of being “alive” could there be?
Summary:
This poignant narrative explores the complex relationship between a daughter, Jamie, and her mother following a life-altering brain injury. Through the lens of humor and shared experiences, they navigate their changing dynamic, reflecting on identity, connection, and the meaning of life after loss. Their relationship experiences a rebirth as they find common ground in their hopes for spring, signifying a deeper understanding of each other amidst the challenges posed by dementia.
Keyphrase:
rediscovering my mother after brain injury
Tags:
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