Alzheimers

My teacher, Deborah Bayer wrote the most beautiful Reader Response for The Sun Magazine on the theme, Rites of Passage.  I hope everyone will read it. It is about her mother finding joy in a duck flying, as if she is a child and she ends with, "suddenly her condition seemed less like a downward spiral and more like a coming full circle." I am Inspired by her beautiful connection with loving her mother's joy in her altered state. Here is a story I wrote about what my mom might be thinking as she battled with dementia.

Cutting “Mom” Hair
(Note: This is a fictional story based on a visit I had with my mom, where we cut her hair and she ended up falling out of bed in the night, which we discovered because her head was bloody in the morning.)

            I feel someone pulling my arms. I can’t see the faces in the light box [TV], against the wall.  Hands touch my shoulder. I hear, “mom.” I squint. I crinkle to move the smudged glasses that hide my eyes.

            I am lifting. Where am I going?  I look to the light in the ceiling but it hurts. I sit in a hard chair with a table at my chest.  Am going to be fed a slushed salad? A small hand grabs my pants. I move it off. What is it?

            I listen to sounds. “Mom. . . mom. . . mom. . .”, “hair,” and “eyes” and “love.” What? Blurry blue eyes look in. I feel warm air on my cheek. I try to shift away. A cloth tucks in my neck. Fingers move my head. I raise my shoulders. Zips and pulls and hands.  Dust falls. Get up! I lift my head and shoulders forward. I am pushed down. Is Lou [husband] rubbing my shoulders? Now the touch is gone.  

            A dark haired girl has sharp pokes in her fingers. I know what she is doing.  Remember how to say it. I touch my head. She keeps moving. Read letters in front of eyes, “B. .ee .E. tt. . T. s. . S. . ..” An eye is close to me, looking.

“Yes. . . me,” it says.

            More noises, words, “down,” “do this. . .” More dust falling. I rub it into the sticky crinkles of my neck and keep my shoulders up. Itchy.

            “Mom.” What say? “look . . . nice.” Little person is running away.

I am lifted. Wet?  Cold air. I want to move. Stand. The weight is there pushing me down.

More hands and wet. I shut my eyes. My shirt is catching on my head, pulling me into the dark inside and then naked. Water on my neck. Hands touch my shoulders. Cold.  Shiver. Bat the arms away. Hands rub face. Look at eyes. Who are you? I let my shoulders fall, eyes close.

            

***

In dark. I hear the sound of “mom” over and over and know I am mom. The voice is high and scared.  The eyes tears when I sing . . .”Jesus love me” and I say, “yes.” I want those blurry eyes, want to say, “Betsy.”

Where is she? Move forward, pull arms to the surface. My legs lumber, weighing on the sheets. “Betsy, I know. I remember.” Where do I find you?

***

Noises and fuzzes at the TV box. The faces close in on me and the little person hops. There is excitement. Fingers poke. “blood. . . wet. . hands?” I relax and hear “found. . . floor. . . mom.” You heard me and came back. It is you. I slouch back, letting people fuss with my arms.  My feet lift and hands cradle them. They swish my toes in circles. I close my eyes and breathe the smell of fresh shampoo.