Slowly Fading Away

She is losing her memory of me. It is quickly fading. She tries hard to pull them out of the shadows, those memories. She complains that something is wrong with her brain and will bat softly at the side of her head. It infuriates her. Why can't she think or put two words together? Why can't she remember our names or where she lives?

Who are you again? What is your name? Where do you live? How old are you? Why can't you come to visit me? These are the questions she asks me. These are the tough questions that I find myself answering over and over again as she sinks deeper and deeper into the ocean of forgotten memories.  

The phone calls become harder and harder to get through without breaking down in tears. I feel such grief. I am slowly losing her. Very slowly. It's like having my heart ripped in two. She sometimes begs, like a child. Please take me with you, why can't I come, are you my sister? How do I, as her daughter answer these questions without crying? I cried today while on the phone with her. She asked me--are you crying? And when I said yes, she began to cry. Why are you crying? She asked. I didn't know how to answer. Do I tell her how sad I am? That I am already grieving her death? The death of her memory? And soon, her final death? And will it be easier? The final death? Or harder? I guess I'll find out soon.

I wonder now if I will lose my memories? My sister and I talk about it. Will it happen to us, we wonder? Both of our parents suffered and do suffer from dementia. Both. Our father died a few years ago. It nearly broke our mother; she would call out for him in the night. I could hear her crying. Even now, in her demented state, she knows who he is. She knows of him, not his name or who he was; deep down inside her psyche, she knows she is connected with this man in the picture. She likes the photos of our younger father. He's cute, she says. When I show her the oldest version of him, she pushes it away--no, the other one, she says, holding that picture close to her heart. This is the one I remember, she says. Interestingly, she remembers him from long ago, when they first met. I'm glad she has this imprinted on her heart. 

Will I be that way? Will I call out for my husband? Will I remember our lives together? Will I know my children's names? Will I recognize them when they come to visit? Or will I say--who are these strange people? It scares me. I don't want to live that way. Anything but that. Memories are something that I treasure. There are huge photo books in my home, along with many pictures in every room. Children, grandchildren, dogs--will I forget who they are? Will I forget my mother? 

Some days sadness overwhelms me. I can go for days or weeks and not dwell on her and her disease. However, when I talk to her, it all comes back. Slow death. Memories lost. 

God be merciful. Take her soon. Please. Hear my prayer.

Spoons

There was a knock on my bedroom door. Everyone wants you to come down and play--said my oldest son. It was one of the best requests ever made to me. Come down and play. My son and some of his friends were playing games in the basement. And they wanted to know if I'd play Spoons with them. That was something I'd never ever turn down. I got up, got dressed, and headed for the basement. Spoons it is.  

When your children are teenagers or young adults, you never turn down a request to hang out. You are well aware of the shortage of time. It's ticking loudly in your ear. The clock of clocks, tick tock, tick tock. I lived in dread of the last alarm going off. I feared the day that there would no longer be anyone to ask me to--go down and play.

So, down I went. For a couple of hours, I played Spoons and laughed with a bunch of loud teenagers. I had the time of my life. They all called me mom, laughing so hard they snorted and made great, long-lasting memories--in my basement. 

For them, most likely, they've forgotten. Me? I'll always remember it. It was spending time with my children, who really were no longer children. It was that feeling of being wanted and of feeling included. I've always thought of myself as being close to my kids, and that was a time that made me feel a part of them. Of their friends, of their lives, and of their memories. All over a game of Spoons. 

I've often wondered-- what if I had been the type of parent who had said no--I'm sleeping or too busy watching TV. However, my husband assured me they would not have asked me in the first place. They knew the answer. They knew that they were important to me and that I loved spending time with them, and still do. Even now, as adults, when they call us and ask--hey, do you want to ...we say yes. Even when we don't. 

My prayer is that I've passed that on to my kids. I pray that they play Spoons with their kids and friends and make memories--silly ones, important ones, memories that will last them until the clock stops ticking. I pray that they learned from us the value of not just being parents but the value of building relationships. 

We will always say yes. We love spending time with them. So even when we're busy, even when we cancel plans already made, we try hard to always say yes. Because when your kids ask you to play Spoons, you do.