As I read this post tonight on Momma and Me Our Journey through Lewy Body Dementia, tears filled my eyes as I remembered a similar moment with my mom a week before she died.
Mom didn’t know who I was most of that last week, but she knew I was someone she could trust. At least after she cried out to God as I put her into bed the Monday of the week before she died and said the words that cut me to the very inner recesses of my heart: “Oh, God, she’s trying to kill me!”
Mom’s mobility was so limited after the major heart attack she suffered on August 2, 2012, that it took all my strength and effort for everything that required movement for her and with her. I was as gentle as I could be with her, and, in some ways, sacrificed my own body, to ensure that Mom was okay, safe, and not taxed any more physically than was necessary. Mom was worth it.
Early in the morning the Tuesday a week before Mom died, she was in the hospital bed I’d had delivered on Monday and I was in the recliner where she’d slept since we’d come home from visiting my twin sister in May (sleeping in a reclining position eased what I now realized were chest pains from her congestive heart failure).
I was in my usual half-awake/half-asleep nightly ritual when a severe leg cramp forced me out of the chair and onto my feet. As I stood up, I saw that Mom was awake, but the leg cramp was so bad, I knew I had to deal with it first before I could deal with her.
I have an old ankle injury (from a serious car accident when I was in college in which my foot got wrapped around the brake) in the leg that was cramping – which is also the leg that I’ve had three reconstructive, repair, and replacement surgeries on my knee – so I’ve learned over the years that I have to be careful not to pop the ankle when I’m trying to walk out leg cramps in that leg.
Walking wasn’t helping, so I sat in a chair and tried to massage the cramp out. It took about 15 minutes, but I was finally able to stop the cramping enough to go to Mom.
I walked over to Mom and took her into my arms and leaned down to talk into her good ear and ask if she was okay. She took me in her arms and held me close to her, returning my embrace fully, and said “I know I’m not going to get out of here, but you can, so as soon as you get well, promise me you’ll leave.”
I promised Mom that I would and we held each other, for me, as mother and daughter, tightly for several minutes. I kissed Mom and told her I loved her always and unconditionally, and she pulled me closer and squeezed me tighter to her chest and then fell asleep.
Other than Mom’s rally the following Saturday, this is one of the most precious memories I have of my last days with Mom. Even if she didn’t know who I was in a conscious way, somewhere deep inside she knew. She remembered. She loved me. She was looking out for me.
In Alzheimer’s Disease and dementia, there’s not a lot left for us to take away as the diseases destroy our connections to our loved ones. I’m thankful for each one that I have, no matter how thin, how temporary, how distant. Because I know behind each of those is my mom and our bond.
It promises me that some things can’t be broken. Ever. For that I’m grateful and thankful.