Grieving My Mother - Update

Grieving My Mother

Update...May 23, 2015

I haven't talked to my mother in two weeks. The last time we spoke was Mother's Day. My brother visited and took the time to call me so I could talk to her while he was there. This is the norm now. I call...we all call, but she doesn't answer her phone. When I ask her why, she says, "I'm probably in the lobby." or "I hear it ring, but I don't know what to do." I try all times of the day, letting the phone ring and ring, thinking to myself "Come on Mom, you can do this. Pick up the phone. Just lift up the handle. Come on." All of my positive thinking doesn't work though.

I feel so distanced from her, but maybe this is someone's way of preparing me for life without her. I sit here and cry, weeping for the mother I once knew. She is becoming a stranger, and I have no control of this outcome. I can't turn back time for her, I can't make her remember, I can't even show her how to pick up the damn phone. Would it be different if I lived in Phoenix? Yes, but would it change the outcome? No.  

The hardest thing is not talking to someone you used to talk to all the time. So yes, I'll cry. I'm allowed to grieve my mother. I'm here, helpless, knowing she is fading from my sights, but never my heart. I can't help her. I can't come to her rescue. I can't bring her back...so yes, I'll cry. 

Kathy Bolen

Grieving My Mother…

1984

I used to love when my mother called me. It was our bond – that bungee cord that connects a mother and daughter when distance gets in the way. Our chats would end no less than 40 minutes after they began, and we discussed the lows and highs of life. In fact, my dad would always mock us wondering how we had so much to talk about. Each time I hung up, I felt that mom had impacted my life in some way with her words of wisdom. 

When my father passed away almost 10 years ago, that mother-daughter bond became even stronger. Our chats were weekly…sometimes more often.  Our roles changed and I became the strong one while she mourned her husband of 59 years. She lived with us in Oregon every summer after that, and we discovered the State together, filling our days with so many adventures. Her eyes would glimmer as she absorbed each new place, taking it all in like a sponge.  She would always tell me, "Dad would've loved it here." 

Wildlife Safari

Newport, OR

Space Needle

Gum Wall, Seattle, WA

Mt. Angel, OR

During this time, our lives became closer, our hearts were entwined - she was not just my mother; She was my confidant, my friend. She still is, but time has passed, and it’s not the same.

My mother called me three times today, but it was the shell of my mother… my mother with Alzheimer’s. Each time she calls a little piece of my heart breaks. She struggles to find the right words, she repeats herself, she can’t remember what she had for lunch, and at the end of our conversation, she wants me to tell everyone that “She’s okay.” We hang up, and I cry. I know she’s not okay. Mom's Alzheimer's has been like a series of small deaths to me and I realize that with the loss of each skill my friend is slowly slipping away. The grief I feel hits me hard some days, knowing that I will never again be with my mother the way it used to be. I will not eat fried potatoes, homemade raviolis, or pineapple upside-down cake made with her hands.  She will never crochet another afghan, or sew buttons on a blouse for me. Her eyes will never sparkle with excitement or anticipation when I share the news of our grandchildren or another wedding on the way. 

“Her mind has holes, yet her heart is full, beating with each breath like a clock, ticking the days away. There is no future. There is no past. There is just what there is, and even the present doesn't make sense anymore.” (Donald Marcou) 

I miss my mother. Bits of her are still there, but I miss her most of all when she calls me.

AZ, 2015

I Love You!

~Kathy Bolen