The Memory Keeper -- A True Story

It has been just over five years since my mother passed away. There was nothing worse than watching her deteriorate before my eyes. A once vibrant, thoughtful, deeply feeling person. Gone. Someone I remembered as awe-inspiring. How she managed everything in spite of competing demands. How she picked herself up and pushed through life’s ups and downs. That was my mother; but Alzheimer’s took her away from me.

Alzheimer’s, or the memory thief, as I call it, was a battle that she struggled with every single day. The disease held her prisoner for 10 years. A long, drawn-out struggle, that I helped her fight because she eventually could not eat, walk, or go to the bathroom on her own. Her words, as she struggled to communicate, became garbled and made little sense. Toward the end, she didn’t know who I or anyone else was. Those she loved, were slowly erased from her mind. From time to time, I saw a hint of a smile, a glimmer of awareness or a small movement of her upper body. But eventually, even those faded. I tried to celebrate those small wins, but I knew that she would lose the war.

In those short-lived moments, I hoped that she was still in there and that she remembered her family. Did she remember the memories we shared or the full life that she had lived? I didn’t know whether she was in pain or what she wanted or needed. I had to guess and put myself in her shoes as though she were not ill. I learned to communicate beyond the typical verbal and non-verbal gestures and facial expressions. I often wondered if she found familiarity, comfort, or understanding in my attempts to reach her? 

Since her diagnosis, Mom’s personality slowly disappeared. Over time, her brain no longer told her how to put one foot in front of the other. It didn’t tell her to clasp a spoon and raise it to her lips. And it didn’t tell her she had a family who loved her. But I know. I remember and, until I no longer can, I vowed to be the keeper of our memories.

We weren’t always close; and as many mother-daughter relationships tend to be, we often didn’t see eye-to-eye. We argued over what it meant to be a woman in Greek culture, the double standards of boys and girls, and men and women. She phoned me four, five and sometimes ten times a day, her voice an urgent squeal of worry when I didn’t answer. Sometimes I didn’t call her back until the next day. Perhaps I enjoyed seeing her worry. Yes, I suppose I was being passive aggressive. Now I yearn for us to squabble about anything Greek or for her to lift pick up the phone, dial my number, and ask me if I made it home safely.

Mom was a product of her culture, making the family the centre of her universe, and topics that were distasteful were to be avoided and flung far from the world she knew. There were subjects we talked about; others that were never spoken of. We never talked about sex. About menstruation, or any of the “taboo” subjects of the day. How I wished I had a mother like Mrs. Brady (from The Brady Bunch) or Mrs. Cunningham (from Happy Days). Ironically, it seemed that any topic was up for discussion.

It was a hot, sticky day in August, before Mom entered her long-term care home. She lay in bed, wearing a sweater over her long-sleeve top. 

“It’s really hot,” I said. “I like sleeping without any clothes on. What about you?” 

She locked her eyes on mine and said, “You need to keep your clothes off in the middle of the night in case your husband needs to have sex with you.” 

I was shocked and amused. Shocked to hear those words come out of my prim and proper mother, amused by the unexpected glimpse into a sex life with my father. Too much information? Maybe. But it was a glimpse into the once-forbidden world in which I grew up.

Mom used to drive like Niki Lauda around the streets of Toronto, later Scarborough, and finally Newcastle. She drove everywhere. Long driving holidays; short trips to the mall. No trip was a hassle. No pickup for her kids was too arduous. She worked hard to get her licence, failing five times, before she understood what “blind spot” meant. English was her second language, and the words, “blind” and “spot” separately made no sense, making her desire to get a licence, elusive. She never gave up. Eventually she figured it out and drove until Alzheimer’s took away what she had fought so hard for — the privilege to drive.

There came a time when Mom didn’t recognize herself in her reflection in the mirror. I looked on from behind her. “You look good,” I told her. She looked perplexed and said, “I know that woman, she’s always here, looking after me.”

“That’s you, Mom, and that’s me beside you. Your daughter.”

She turned to me, looked, shook her head and said, “You’re not my daughter. You’re old. My Rena is a little girl."

A tear fell down my cheek. That was in the early days of the disease. Later she moved on to her childhood years, calling out for her mother and father, seeking comfort from parents who were no longer here.

Mom offered me many lessons, even though she didn’t know it. My key takeaway was to live in the moment. Mom didn’t worry about the past; she had no regrets about the choices she made; she didn’t feel anxiety over an unknown future; and she no longer fretted over my whereabouts. Like a young child, her needs were immediate: sleep, shelter, food and a loving embrace.