Dementia is evil. If it were possible, it should be unmade.
Dementia steals big things, small moments, entire people. It gives nothing back, leaving a trail of blank greyness where there once was evidence of a life well-lived.
Tonight, a partner of one of the residents at Mom's nursing home noted she seems like an entirely different person when I'm around. Not to make me feel guilty, she said, but because the change was so striking.
And all I could think was, she's like she was before all of this; I wish you could have known her then.
She was taken, you see, a piece at a time. Some pieces I noticed; some were returned, only to be taken again later. The pieces I miss the most are the ones taken while I thought she was present and she wasn't.
Mom was always quirky and different; I got that from her. She taught me sign language before I was old enough to talk so she would have someone to sign with. Later, she taught art when I was in elementary school.
She packed a small car with a tween, a kid, and a dog to leave an abusive relationship in the 80s; not because it was brave or empowered, but because she had to protect her kids. She traveled to San Francisco, the Bahamas, and London.
And it feels as if I am writing her obituary, as if she has already gone. Because dementia is an insidious thief.
Dementia steals big things, small moments, entire people. It gives nothing back, leaving a trail of blank greyness where there once was evidence of a life well-lived.
Tonight, a partner of one of the residents at Mom's nursing home noted she seems like an entirely different person when I'm around. Not to make me feel guilty, she said, but because the change was so striking.
And all I could think was, she's like she was before all of this; I wish you could have known her then.
She was taken, you see, a piece at a time. Some pieces I noticed; some were returned, only to be taken again later. The pieces I miss the most are the ones taken while I thought she was present and she wasn't.
Mom was always quirky and different; I got that from her. She taught me sign language before I was old enough to talk so she would have someone to sign with. Later, she taught art when I was in elementary school.
She packed a small car with a tween, a kid, and a dog to leave an abusive relationship in the 80s; not because it was brave or empowered, but because she had to protect her kids. She traveled to San Francisco, the Bahamas, and London.
And it feels as if I am writing her obituary, as if she has already gone. Because dementia is an insidious thief.
No comments:
Post a Comment