I wrote this in my Moments with Mama during her 9 year battle with Alzheimers. It was two days after Christmas not knowing we’d just had our last one together.
December 27th.
I wanted to write this jubilant post about the new year. There are so many things I’m excited about despite the circumstances but I can’t bring myself to do it. If you don’t want to read my Eeyore post, I understand, it just helps my soul to write this. Being frustratingly human, I have to remind myself that sometimes things don’t make sense.
I’ve cried a lot this Christmas. I’ve obsessed over the volume of presents under the tree, not the money aspect of it, just the sheer madness of it all. With everything going on, it felt suffocating. I know it was all in my head which is a scary place to be.
As we gathered at Mom and Dad’s on Christmas Day, I was reminded of the harsh reality that it will forever be a different kind of Christmas. I’ve cried thinking about all Mama used to do…
the beautifully decorated big tree with presents everywhere, some of which she’d hide and forget, and now Dad puts up the little tree on the table and it sits kind of empty;
the cooking she’d do with no recipe because they’re all in her head (which is why I can’t cook, just sayin’); now the kitchen is quiet;
the over the top stacks of gifts she’d get everyone and us all trying to top her so she’ll have the biggest stack; now there are no presents;
the necklace she gave me from Avon then ordered and tried to give me again a couple of times, one of the signs that things were changing.
How could we have known when we were having our last ‘normal’ Christmas? How could we have known the last Christmas she would cook or wrap or laugh. How could we have known the last Christmas she’d know who we were. I want to go back to that Christmas, to see her in the kitchen, to smell and taste her cooking, to hear her laughing. I just want to hear her real voice, not her Alzheimers voice, one more time. I want her to know who we are and why we are there. I want to go back and it frustrates my spirit to no end knowing I can’t.
On Christmas Day night, while getting ready for bed, I looked in the mirror which is usually a passing glance. This time I stopped and really looked into my own eyes. I began to ask God again what was wrong with me, asking His forgiveness, feeling so ungrateful. Then, it was like I saw her… how many times did Mama look in the mirror and ask God, “What’s wrong with me?” or pray “God, please help me” or just say to Him, “I need you.” How many times did she look in the mirror and wonder who she was. In our case, we never knew how she was feeling because she refused to talk about it. We were never privy to her fears and to think how lonely she had to be… while she never talked to a soul on earth about it, I can only assume she talked to Him.
Just think… she couldn’t have known when her last prayer was the last one. She’s forgotten all of us, is it possible this horrid disease could make her forget Him too? I have no doubt He has her in the palm of His hand and He needs no words but to think of her not knowing how to cry out to Him anymore or even who He is, it’s just heartbreaking. Here I am able to cry out to Him anytime, to love Him and feel His love… do I take it for granted? It makes me want to cling to Him more than I’ve ever clung to anyone.
Well, I’ve got to pull it together, find my bootstraps as I always tell myself. While this sucky disease can take so much from my sweet Mama, it can’t take the warmth of His touch from her or the peace that only He can give her. It can’t take our family, it can’t take our prayers; we lift her up because we love her and because she no longer can.
I know that so many of you are going through this. I pray for you, for peace and understanding, for the warmth of His embrace.
Love,
Tracey
Just a Crazy Girl
For those who don’t know me, my mother passed away from this disease on 11.26.16 after nine years of fighting. She became healed at 1:21 p.m. that day and while she didn’t have to say a word, I’m sure she was calling His name as she ran to Him healed at last! Read more of our journey at Moments with Mama. The picture shown is of her and my Dad with their six grandchildren midway through her disease.
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