My mother is gearing up for a wedding, and she needs some makeup essentials. It takes me at least ten minutes to choose the perfect blush, eyeliner, and the ideal shade of Revlon lipstick.
I’ve already exhausted myself helping her find high heels, and managing this outing is quite the challenge. When caring for a parent with dementia, even the slightest suggestion can spark frustration. Every piece of advice I offer feels like a judgment on her independence. Inside the Easy Spirit store, my 2-year-old repeatedly darts toward the open door, eager to greet the spring air. Meanwhile, my mother is struggling to put a stiletto on the wrong foot, all while insisting the staff has given her the incorrect shoe.
I find myself racing up and down the aisles, trying to wrangle my child while also attempting a discreet conversation with the salesman: “My mother has dementia, so I’ll handle the explanations. Please speak to her directly, but still listen to me.” It’s a real pleasure trying to convey this to a busy New York shoe salesman who likely has no idea how to navigate family intricacies.
Every corner of my mind is lit up as I navigate both dementia and toddler antics. My mother and daughter are ever-aware of being talked about rather than to, which has turned me into a sort of secret agent in my own family. Unfortunately, I often fall short with my mother, and our encounters can end in a melodramatic clash worthy of Eugene O’Neill. We leave vowing never to see each other again. She insists I’m “making her memory worse by taking away her choices,” while I’m simply trying not to lose my sanity.
Yet, in just a few minutes, she will forget our argument, and I won’t be upset anymore. I’ll just see my mother—the woman who carries fragments of her past and pieces of her essence but lacks the vibrant spark she once had. We’ll rediscover our friendship, take my daughter out for lunch, and I’ll drag both of them through the day, neither fully capable of managing on their own but both fiercely determined to try.
I decide to venture into the cosmetics aisle alone, treating it as a personal ritual. I’m gathering a gift bag for my mother’s boyfriend for the wedding. He remembers her from “before” and, like me, clings to those memories while trying to appreciate her as she is now. She can still be lively and amusing, as long as you catch her on the right day. Her sharp wit remains intact. A friend recently told her that despite the significant brain bleed five years ago, she seems “like her old self.” Without missing a beat, she replied, “I wouldn’t know.”
I find joy in old-fashioned pharmacies that sell soap in charming tin canisters adorned with sailboats. They also offer talcum powder, which makes me wonder—does anyone still use that? I find it hard to resist lingering here.
I remember my mother gifting me my first bottle of perfume in our Los Angeles apartment. My room was sparse, as she believed in cherishing a few treasured items. A dusty pink vase held elegant pussy willow stalks, and my white desk—a pristine hand-me-down from my sister—looked over Gregory Way.
On my 17th birthday, I awoke to find a curved glass bottle resting on my desk, illuminated by sunlight. My mother, who once had an eye for detail, had gifted me “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder. It was a promise of something wonderful, a world of romance awaiting me, even though I was without a boyfriend or social events on the horizon. I missed out on prom, but the memories of my mother’s wisdom and guidance filled that void.
One afternoon, I played an Ella Fitzgerald cassette I bought at Tower Records. Experiencing her music was like discovering a new world; my mother understood that feeling. We sat on the floor, and she closed her eyes, smiling as she said, “She’s silk and honey.” We indulged in the magic of Ella’s voice for 14 delightful minutes.
My memories of my mother are not hazy; they are sharp and clear. She introduced me to the concept of tragedy and drama, having been a world-class figure skater, a Broadway dancer, and even a television actress. Despite her accomplishments, she always believed my sister and I were more talented. They say daughters often absorb their mother’s sense of self-worth, making it essential for mothers to avoid self-deprecation. She made me feel like a precious creation, something exquisite that sprang from her imagination.
The night before the wedding, my mother called me in a panic. Her boyfriend had informed her of the formal event, and she felt unprepared—her roots needed touching up, and she had no makeup, jewelry, or suitable attire. I reassured her that everything was packed in a shopping bag: shoes, pantyhose, dress, cosmetics, pearls, and high heels. Her boyfriend would deliver them with plenty of time for her to get ready. I urged her to look in the mirror; her hair was freshly cut and colored.
Tears filled her eyes as she exclaimed, “Thank you.”
“Oh, Mom. Thank you.”
This article has been adapted to reflect a new perspective on memory, love, and the complexities of family dynamics in the face of change.