What do you do when your mother forgets you?

Christmas 2016, I surprised my mother with a visit. As I stood at her door she greeted me with a simple “hello” and told me to come inside before her cat got out. Once inside, she looked at me and said, “Do I know you?” I replied…”I don’t know, do you know me?” Then she realized who I was and the tears began to flow. That was three years ago and I chalked it up to the fact that she had recently fallen, hence the reason for my surprise visit.

After this visit there were several more and one that included visiting her doctor with her. He had been telling my step-sister (who will will call my sister here on out because she is closer to me than biological siblings I have and I love her with every ounce of my being) and me that the time was coming she should not be living on her own. She was fighting for her autonomy with every bit of fight she had left. She avoided going out, she told white lies, she pleaded with her friend to not tell us about her memory lapses or drives in the night thinking it was daytime…she knew she was losing a battle with her failing memories and ability to know what was going on around her, to manage her finances and take her medications.

My sister and I visited several assisted living facilities and nursing facilities. We encouraged (begged and pleaded) with Mother to come with us but she would have none of it. She wanted to stay in her house until she died.

Fast forward 18 months, on a July morning she walked outside her house, tripped and fell. As a result of the fall she had fractured her pelvis and was placed in a nursing facility to recuperate. When it came time to make a decision to go home she was insistent that she was going home. I was torn because after her few months in the nursing home she seemed more cognitive of what was going on and seemed to be moving better as well. All this was a result of better diet, attention and care, consistent medications, lack of worries or stress from being in survival mode. Although it was difficult, with her doctors help, we did tell her she would no longer be able to live on her own.

I live 2000 miles away and although I don’t she her every week, over the past year and a half I have been to see her eight times. The last several times, when I walk in with my sister she looks a me for a moment but pretty quickly realizes who I am. Last week, I traveled down and with my sister went to tell her that her step son had passed away. She had claimed Albert as her own when he was ten years old, the youngest of all of us he past away suddenly and unexpectedly at 59. When we walked in she said to my sister who sees her every other week, “Who is that woman with you?” My sister replies you don’t know who this is? It’s your daughter. Sister quickly reassures me that the reason she did recognize me was due to the fact my hair was up in a bun.  She says that Mother sometimes doesn’t recognize her at first if her hair is in a ponytail.

We held Mother’s hand and told her the sad news about Albert and his passing.  All in all she took it well,  but repeated the same questions over and over about how, where, funeral etc. We took her to dinner and when we left she was a little weepy but accepting. The next day we came back and took her to lunch with her friend. We had a good lunch, then went back to her room and put up valentine decorations and gave her some new sweaters and blouses we had gotten her. She was in good spirits although she still keep repeating the same questions, not fully grasping or remembering the answers. When we left she walked us to the door and we said our goodbyes.

Today, one week later, I called her to see how she was doing. It was my second call this week. The first thing she said to me today was, “Did you hear Albert died?’ I said, “Yes I heard. Remember Paulette and I came to tell you last week?” No, she didn’t remember me coming, she remembers my sister but not me. She asks again about Albert’s funeral, and then switches the subject  tells me she got new shoes but she doesn’t know where she got them or what they look like. Then she asks me, “When are you coming to see me?”

It is a little stab in the heart, she doesn’t know me but she does; she wants me to visit but she doesn’t remember. I dread the day she doesn’t know me when I come or doesn’t ask when I am coming back. Sadly,  I know one day my mother will forget me.