My Mom Is Here — But She's Not. This Is What I'm Missing Most

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Sitting in the theater a few weeks ago, I felt a pang of sadness. It was the type of show my mom would have loved seeing, and I wished so much that she was sitting in the chair next to me.

My mom and I used to always go to Broadway shows together. It was a passion we shared, and even as adults, we made sure to carve out time to go at least once a year. Some of my favorite memories are the days we spent in the city, just the two of us, going to lunch and then seeing a musical or play. We saw so many wonderful productions like Beautiful, Gypsy and Thoroughly Modern Millie.

Sadly, my mom and I can’t go to shows anymore, and I really miss it. I miss a lot of things about my mom.

I know I am lucky. My mom is alive. Having lost my father two years ago, I appreciate that I still have my mother in my life. I’m cognizant that many peers my age are not as fortunate.

But my mother has dementia. Her symptoms began several years ago when she was in her mid-70s. It was so subtle at first that it was easy to chalk up her minor lapses to normal forgetfulness, the type of stuff we attribute to getting older.

The isolation and diminished socialization due to the pandemic played a role in Mom’s decline. After suffering a mini-stroke, the neurologist diagnosed early dementia. He put her on some medication, but he hadn't been optimistic, explaining that there wasn’t much that could be done to stop the progression.

Beyond the cognitive issues, Mom changed emotionally. She was more anxious and fearful. She became reluctant to do things outside her routine or leave familiar surroundings.

Invitations to my home an hour away were met with resistance. I’d offer to pick her up and bring her to stay for a night or two. She'd thank me for the offer, but preferred we visit at her house instead. When I asked if she wanted to go to the theater, she politely but adamantly declined. An activity she used to love was now a source of angst.

So, instead of trips to the city, we spend our time together near her home. If the weather is good enough, she may want to go out of the house — perhaps take a trip to the nail salon, a doctor's appointment or a meal somewhere in her neighborhood.

Some visits are hard, and I leave feeling drained. I am grateful that she always recognizes me and asks about my husband and kids. But there are days when she has trouble with conversation, fighting to find the words. Once valedictorian of her high school class, it frustrates her not to be able to access her once vast vocabulary.

On difficult days, I forgo trying to make too much small talk and suggest we look at photos together. She smiles as we page through the pictures, reminders of the good times we spent together. I wonder silently how long she will hold on to these memories and recognize the faces in the photos.

Other visits are easier. She can hold more animated conversations, and we can reminisce about the past. I'll tell her stories about my kids, now all adults, things only a grandmother would find interesting.

I try to be appreciative of this time, but admittedly, even when we are together, I miss her. I miss our trips to the city and to the theater. I miss our shopping expeditions. She was the best at finding a loose thread or a small, easy-to-remove stain and getting the salesperson to discount the item. She never hesitated to tell me if something did not look good on me.

I miss the talks we used to have — the light and silly conversations about TV shows we were both watching, books we had read and the movies we had seen. The only show she watches regularly is General Hospital. Before I visit, I make sure to be caught up on what is happening in the fictional town of Port Charles so we can at least talk about that.

I miss the deeper conversations, too. Before dementia, my mother didn’t hesitate to give me advice on everything from my hair color to my kids. Admittedly, sometimes, I wished she would keep her opinions to herself. Now, if she does make a bluntly honest comment, it makes me smile.

On my most recent visit, Mom told me that my hair was too long and I should get it cut. It was the type of thing that years ago probably would have annoyed me. I’m almost 60 years old, and I don’t need to be told when to get a haircut. Now, I just smile. It’s a glimpse of her old self and lets me know she is still here. "Thanks, Mom," I replied. “I'll make an appointment."

 
Have you had any experience with dementia? Let us know in the comments below.