Alzheimer's: My Mother's Approval

Ruby Vee, BSN

I was one of those little girls whose mother didn't like her. She liked my sister just fine -- thought she was perfect in every way. Me -- not so much. For most of my life, there was nothing I could ever do that was good enough for her, nothing I said, did or was pleased her. I graduated with honors from high school (despite having two jobs) and I should have been valedictorian and why hadn't I been a cheerleader or homecoming queen?

I was an honor student in college despite having been self supporting since the day after my high school graduation and that wasn't good enough. Worse, there was the constant comparison to my sister.

Why wasn't I as social as my sister?

As pretty?

As popular?

As confident?

(Well that one seems rather self-explanatory: if your mother constantly compares you to someone else and finds you lacking in every way, it tends to erode any confidence you might have had or have hoped to have had.) My husband wasn't as good looking or successful as my sister's husband (according to Mom), my job wasn't as prestigious and my home wasn't as beautiful.

But when Mom's Alzheimer's entered the middle stages, things changed. When I called my mother, she was delighted to hear from me. She never criticized my choices, my job, my husband or my parenting skills. When I visited her, she had only nice things to say.

Suddenly, she liked my hair.

She found that my shirt color complemented my complexion and that I had beautiful eyes.

There weren't any comments about how my sister really knew how to wear an outfit (and I didn't even know how to put one together) or my sister's house was bigger or nicer; she liked my house, my outfits and she liked me. I was in my fifties, and for the first time in my life, my mother liked me. She even told me she loved me. Often.

Not surprisingly, I spoke to my mother more during the middle years of her Alzheimer's than I did in the fifty-odd years that came before. At first, I called her out of a sense of obligation. Her husband of sixty years was gone, and she was alone for the first time in her life. Worse, she couldn't enjoy any of the benefits of being alone -- and there are many -- she was in assisted living very much against her will. But a funny thing happened. When my mother didn't use every interaction as an excuse to list my deficiencies as a person and as a daughter, I noticed her wonderful sense of humor. When she stopped comparing me to my sister, I found myself enjoying the phone calls. Soon, I was calling her every day and looking forward to talking to her.

For two and a half years (minus twenty-some days) I had a mother who approved of me, and I basked in that approval. It couldn't last, though, and I knew it from the start. That's what made every loving phone call so bitter sweet. She's progressed beyond the moderate stages of Alzheimer's now.

The lovely assisted living is a thing of the past; she's in a secured Alzheimer's unit now. She can't converse coherently even when she does figure out how to hold the phone. She cannot eat, dress, bathe or toilet herself. Her gait is unsteady and she wanders. My mother's shell is still with us, but my mother has fled. I wonder if she'll still recognize me when I see her. I wonder if it matters.

I'm at the computer writing this while searching for the cheapest air fare between my home and my mother's nursing home, a thousand miles from here. Each time I visit, it costs nearly a thousand dollars between air fare, rental car, motel and meals, so I can't visit as often as I'd like. I've enjoyed the visits I've had with Mom for the past two and a half years, but I know this one will be different.

When I see her, I just hope I can remember her voice saying "I love you, Ruby. I've loved you since before you were born. I wanted to make sure I told you that while I still can because I know the time is coming when I won't be able to."

I waited a long time for my mother to tell me she loved me. I'll never hear it again.