Some of my best memories are connected to gardens. Outside or in the house, Mom could grow anything. It’s weird talking about her in the past tense because she’s still here. On a good day, she’ll tell you, “I’m still kickin’. Just not as high.”
But, over the years, we’ve lost her in bits and pieces. Probably started long before we realized. We just chalked it up to stubbornness.
Mom was born in the bedroom of a South Dakota farmhouse and some of her best memories were running open fields with her younger brothers.
Now, that work-outside-from-morning-to-night woman doesn’t like being outdoors. At all. That piece of her is gone. The one that loved to plant and tend and grow, and putz around woods and along shorelines. The one who collected scads of drift wood and rocks and feathers and lotus pods and cool weeds and pine cones … anything that spoke to her soul … as much as we could carry.
I used to spark her memory of picking radishes, tomatoes, cucumbers, and green peppers. How we’d slice them up fresh from the garden~with the sunshine still in them~and crunch them on bread with mayo and salt and pepper. I don’t try to take here there anymore because not remembering makes her anxious. Sometimes she thinks I’m making stuff up and looks at me like I’m “two bricks short of a load.” That’s what she’d say on a good day.
I’m not always sure she remembers me though. She senses the connection but can’t always find my name. I tell her it’s okay. If I had six kids, I’d get them mixed up too. And I remind her, “It’s okay, Momma. It’s our turn to take care of you.”
We’ve learned to roll with this new mom. If she’s unsettled, we compliment her freshly braided silver-silk hair or her painted finger nails. The ones that used to be chipped and stained from the soil. Now, she loves them painted fiery red by the CNAs at the nursing home.
We’ve learned to pray that wherever her mind takes her, it’s a happy place. Where she’s not worried about forgetting or fretting about stuff she had to leave at her house.
It’s a heart-rending journey, isn’t it? To be patient, to be creative, to see what makes them smile and roll with it. My mom’s eyes still light up at red Geraniums. My dad’s favorite. They bloom outside her window in a raised bed next to her bird feeders.
It’s strange how someone changes and all we can do is try to keep up. One minute we’re detectives helping recall a word or a name or a place. The next, we’re time travelers meeting a ninety-year-old back in time as she waits to see her mom on Mother’s Day.
My childhood friend, Laura, inspires me. She’s a bit further on this journey, as her mom has passed on. Laura lost her in bits and pieces and loved her beautifully through it. She writes, “The loss of memory has a mind of its own that no one can predict.”
So true. From one moment to the next, a flash of clarity or maybe even a whole conversation. Or confusion and hallucinations. Then we change the subject and tease them for ordering chocolate ice cream for breakfast. That’ll spark a childlike grin.
I know it’s exhausting, my friends. Leaving their room and driving away is difficult too. But, as we let go in bits and pieces, keep looking for joy in bits and pieces. Those small but big moments when we fully live, fully present. When we take an extra few seconds to soak in toddler hugs or to sip creamy root beer floats with friends. Go ahead and order that loaded pepperoni pizza or maybe even soak in the sunshine of a fresh garden sandwich.
Peace, joy, and rest for your journey.
Photo from Pixabay.com
