I miss my mom. I miss her every day.  In ways I never imagined- but all the same, I miss her. 

She is not dead.  She is locked in the abundant sunshine of her brain.  And the clouds are closing in quickly.  It is heartbreaking.  When they first tell you dementia is on the menu-they give you an entire itemized list of things that are going to be happen- a la carte- to deter the process.  Then they give you sheets of information that outline ways to manage and ways to cope.  What to expect when someone you love is expecting this memory sucking thing called dementia.  What it mirrors.  What it might do.  What it certainly will do and the phases you can expect it will do along the way. And then you wait. And watch it all unfold. 

Here is what they don’t tell you:

As dementia sets in-and in our case, vascular related dementia-you will watch as your once vibrant and extremely independent mother becomes more dependant on someone else every day.  You will watch as your mom fights the waxes and wanes of her brain power-that fools us all- because she is still so aware of what she is losing-but no longer aware of anything past a five minute time frame.  It is a bitter catch 22.  You will watch as your mother puts up a front-that self preservation one-that one we all know so well-that one that comes with it’s own over-sized pair of rose colored glasses-and you will observe her fight for her brain just as she fought for her children.  She will not want to be a burden.  Every day is sunny.  Every chapter in her book-the book of mom ,is woven with the best of stories and a happy ending. Repeat. Repeat Repeat.

 You will become the parent to your parent, even when you don’t want to-even when you were not quite ready. You are parenting your own child.  Wait a minute. Not right now.  Suddenly, you are making decisions for your mom you know she made for you-though not in the same degree-but certainly with the same intention.  For her greater good.  For her well being and safety.  To honor her opinions and requests.  The decisions will not be easy.  Your mother will not like them and she will throw a fit and maybe lose her temper. She who never lost her temper ever. Not once.  You will feel guilty for taking things away when so much is leaving on it’s own.  You will beg and plead with medical people to find the answer-or give you more time to make accommodations.  You will come across people who will take advantage of your mother and think nothing of it-and yes, some of those people will be your family members.  You will begin to hear stories your mother had locked away-that maybe you should not hear-but there they are for the listening-and then you will have to decide what to do with them.  You will lose sleep.  Your mother and her well being will become your part-time, sometimes full time job-on top of all the other things you do.  You will be exhausted.  And angry.  You will want to shake her out of it-that thing called dementia and wonder why…why? Mom, why are you escaping into that land of not coming back?  You will become less of the daughter or son and more of the person she raised you to be.  Those lessons coming at you-rapid fire, rapid speed.  No time to think-you just do what she taught you-because you know that is what she would want.  Those damn lessons.    You learned them-when all along you thought you had not-there they are-right there, ready for good use.  You will see the things in yourself your mother gave to you.  And you never even knew it.  You will find the snippets of humor and things to make you laugh.  Dementia can be funny at times.  And you will cry.  Those tears will creep up in the most unexpected of places and suddenly you are crying. 

 But here is the real kicker.  You will miss your mom. You will miss your mom.  You will want to pick-up the phone and call her. You will want to share the news from whatever chapter in your own book of life-but it will not matter anymore. You will want to have your mother there-to make it all right.  To not judge.  To just be there.  But it will not matter anymore.  Am I finally being the adult?  I want my mother.  I miss my mom. You will be standing in the procession of the longest ongoing funeral for someone who is not dead -but you will miss them like they were.  Everyday.  Every. Day.

If I were writing a book- this would be Chapter 11: “Mom is Missing-or I Miss My Mom”- they are one in the same.