Turning the Page
It feels like a page has turned in my life.
“New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.”
It feels like a page has turned in my life. I’m not quite sure what’s written on the next page, but between the quarantine we’ve all been dealing with and my mother’s passing in the middle of it, I know my life will look different going forward.
One thing we humans seem to be extraordinarily good at in general is adapting to whatever life throws our way. When it became clear in early March that the coronavirus was a real threat and we would all need to shelter at home, there were basically two impacts to my life: one, I couldn’t visit my mom in her memory care unit nearby or see our grandchildren, and two, no more eating out. I would need to learn to negotiate the new world of scarcity in local grocery stores.
It was distressing at first, but as the weeks passed I found myself enjoying the slower pace of life. Grocery stores had spot shortages but weren’t anywhere near as barren as I was led to believe. I missed our grandchildren, but I knew we would all survive. I did worry about my mom. I was able to FaceTime with her from time-to-time, but that’s no substitute for in-person visits. I couldn’t really tell how she was doing. I’m certain the staff was incredibly stretched trying to meet everyone’s needs while maintaining social distancing among a group of 30 or so residents with no ability to comprehend the situation.
And then, three days before her 93rd birthday—the Saturday evening before Easter—Mom passed away.
Over the last few years dementia stole virtually everything Mom enjoyed, piece by piece. The sewing and crafts she loved. Playing games with family and friends. Her ability to have a coherent conversation. Her independence. Her home. Her ability to walk. Her ability to have any conversation at all—even a nonsensical one. And finally, the ability to chew. To swallow. To breathe.
In many ways, her passing was a blessing. It was time. But it was oh, so painful to know she spent her last weeks, days, and hours virtually alone.
Since then, memories of my “pre-dementia” mom have started to flood back. No longer constantly worried about how Mom is doing, I find myself smiling at the memory of her making all those Barbie doll clothes for my sister and me when we were little. At her shopping my sister and me into the ground well into her seventies, leaving the two of us collapsed on a bench while she continued her quest for the item of the moment. At how she seemed to “grow a new pair of horns” (our father’s description) whenever she got behind the wheel of a car.
Things are finally starting to open back up here in Kansas. It feels good, but I hope we can maintain some of that slower pace we were all forced into so unexpectedly. Mom came to visit me a few nights ago in a dream, and let me know that my hair is looking pretty bad and that I “need to do something about it.” Those kinds of comments used to irritate me, but now all it did was make me smile and get a hair appointment made for the day the hair salons open up. It was great to see her.
To continue reading about serenity check out Utah Photographer Emily Hamson’s blog post.