MY TW0 CENTS

MICHEL TESTER

“Moms Are People Too”

“Behind every great kid is a mom who is pretty sure she’s screwing it all up.” ~ Unknown

My mother passed away in 2018, following a 10-year-long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. Caring for my mother and watching her fade away over those years, two words always come first to my mind: heart-wrenching and brutal. In my opinion, it’s one of the worst diseases. It strips a person of who and what they are. It is a relentless, ruthless thief of every life experience earned, of every cherished memory, of every stage of life endured, of every little thing held dear to the heart. It shows no mercy.

I was very close to my mother. She was my best friend, my rock, and my biggest supporter. I am the youngest of five. As a child and growing up, I had a lot of health issues, and I was sick often—in and out of hospitals, back and forth to doctors—taking up a great deal of my mother’s time and her resources. Yet, my mother never complained, never showed one ounce of exasperation to me. No, my mother never made me feel like a burden, ever. She always made me feel like I was a gift.

Following my mother’s diagnosis, I researched everything I could on the disease. I would take her to her neurologist and bombard the doctor with questions. I knew the stages. I understood the trajectory. So, in the back of my mind, yes, I knew the chances of her one day not knowing who I was. But, deep down, a part of me believed that there was no way my mother would ever forget one of her kids. She lived for her children. She devoted her entire life, her entire existence, to her children, to her family. No way. It just wouldn’t happen. Until it did.

One of the worst days of my life. It was odd, really, because I had already been to see my mother earlier that day. But around 7:30 p.m. that same evening, I told my husband I was heading back down to see her. I can’t explain it. It was just a feeling, a tugging. And, if you know about Alzheimer’s, you probably know that night is usually not their best time. Sundowning in Alzheimer’s disease refers to increased confusion, agitation, and other behavioral changes that usually occur in the late afternoon and evening, often peaking around sunset. I knew this, but I felt I was being pulled there for some reason. When I got there, my mother was sitting on the side of her bed, just staring at the wall. When I sat beside her, she turned slowly to me, and I knew right away, my heart shattering, tears welling up in my eyes…she didn’t know me. I spoke, softly, “Mom, it’s me, Michele.” The pain that crossed her face in that split moment, gone as quickly as it came, has stayed with me all of these years.

I’d like to say that it got a little easier over time, her not knowing me, but I’d be lying. There were occasions over the years that I thought, just for a split moment, she knew me. I would be holding her hand, and she would stare into my eyes and squeeze my hand ever so slightly, nodding. And I would squeeze her hand and nod back. I love you, too, Mom. I hold on to those moments.

Through this devastating disease, I learned something about my mother, or I should say I finally realized something that unfortunately eluded me most of my life: Moms are people too. See, in my mind and heart, she was Mom. She was who I turned to in need, who I reached out to for advice, who I leaned on in a crisis, who I looked for to be cheering me on. But what I failed to realize, not intentionally, is that she had her own life. She wasn’t just “my mom,” she was a woman. She had her own life to deal with, her own disappointments, her own triumphs, her own heartbreaks.

I suddenly thought of all the times I had called her or ran to her as an adult, spewing out whatever was happening in my life, not stopping to say, “How’s it all going in your life?” “Can I help with anything?” Or simply sitting with her and asking her questions about her life. Tell me more about your upbringing. Tell me more about how you and Dad met. Tell me what you were like as a child. I must interject that I always tried my best to be a wonderful daughter to my mother, and I hope I succeeded in that. I loved and respected who she was and every sacrifice she made for all of us. She was selfless and so very giving. I only wish I had taken more time to get to know the woman.

Sitting with my mom through those brutal years, watching her slowly leave me, a whirlwind of emotions would constantly sweep through me, from deep sadness to intense anger, hopelessness to fear, blame to acceptance, and everything in between. I talked to her a lot, especially toward the end, when she couldn’t really respond. I would talk about childhood memories, about family times, just about everything. I told her how much I loved her and how incredible a mother I thought she was. And I thanked her again and again.

Being that May celebrates mothers, and if you are fortunate enough to have your mother still with you, take my advice: Make a special effort and set aside a time to sit with her, one-on-one, and ask her about her life. About her growing up. What was she like as a child? As a teenager? What were her triumphs? Her challenges? Any questions you have always wanted to ask? Ask her now. Make the day truly about her, not just as your mother but as a woman. You may be surprised and enlightened at what you find out. And I can definitely say this: You won’t ever regret the time spent. We will always end up regretting more what we didn’t do than what we did do, even if it doesn’t turn out as we expected.

But that’s just my two cents.

To all mothers, Happy Mother’s Day.