I embrace the memories of Bayside, where I grew up, and all
that is evoked of my childhood in the context and presence of my mother’s
recently diagnosed Alzheimer’s disease. Memories have taken on a new meaning
and a new urgency for me. They are not
to be taken for granted and I feel compelled to secure and somehow protect
them. I am reminded of the old, black and white Polaroid photos and the
necessity of wiping them with a fixing agent to ensure that they wouldn’t
fade. If only there was a fixing agent
for our memories.
It has become difficult for my mother to describe events; of days
past or of the day that has just passed “We went to that special place to buy
things” “We went to eat at that place where we always go”. She confuses nouns and proper nouns; I become
Leon; my wife becomes my sister; the car becomes “the thing we drive in”.
Over breakfast I encourage my mother to talk of her youth and how
she met my father. She talks in vague, ambiguous phrases and I work hard to
help fill in the details.
“I was at a place, (I believe it was small a women’s college
in Manhattan), and men would come and visit”.
“I was dating another man, who loved me and kept on trying to
give me something” (I believe it may have been some form of jewelry, perhaps a
class ring).
“I met my, father, I mean my husband at a place” (I cannot
decipher this). “He was so very handsome,
and we fell in love immediately.”
“We wanted to get married right away but we had to wait until
my sister got married first. When we got
married, it was at the same place as my sister”
These words that define who we are; these names, places, descriptors
that give meaning and structure to the individualized world we have constructed
over decades - what happens when we cannot find them? There is a person who I loved, who I married,
with whom I had children and shared a life.
He died, he was too young, I was heartbroken; who is that person? Does our life slip away? Do we cease to understand the path that
brought us to this moment?
I work hard to be my mother’s partner in memory and together
we come to share her story. Perhaps, this
is the nature of our lives. We create
and share collective memories – family memories, ethnic memories, national and
global memories. The sharing of memories
binds us to one another. My sisters and
I have taken up the load to help my mother be part of this collective family
memory. We are richer for it, but there
is a price to pay.
In the face of a fading past and an inevitable frightening
future, my relationship with my mother is deepened and enriched. Our daily phone calls have become warmer more
intimate. I begin by announcing myself
with high affect – to get things started and to ensure that she knows who it is:
“HI MOM! I can hear the joy in her voice
as she responds: “Hello, my son”. I give her an update on children and relatives,
and she tells me of her day – as she is able.
We end in a manner we never did before the onset of her illness - by
saying “I love you”. Why is it that we only truly appreciate the present when
we begin to lose the capacity to embrace the past or hope for a future?
My mother has begun to take stock of her life and to measure
her days. She talks of how lucky she is:
Four children, 15 grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren. She is giving many of her prized possessions away;
her parents’ magnificent breakfront is given to Susan; Jo and I now possess her
beautiful crystal and silverware. She
cast off these heirlooms as she cast off her memories; she is letting go. In a
seemingly paradoxical manner, my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease has brought me
closer to my own past as I return to Bayside Oaks and walk the streets; as I
talk with my mother and we become partners in memories. Puzzle pieces of my own life, once lost,
reemerge and fall into place. It is as if there is a law of conservation of
memory; as my mother’s memories diminish mine are renewed.
Across the table, my mother looks at me with such love that I am momentarily taken aback. I realize how
profoundly joyful my visit has made her and how grateful she is for our time together. For a brief moment, it feels like a
burden. The unconditional love between
parent and child has been redefined and realigned and I now fully understand that
our respective roles have forever been dramatically changed – to an extent reversed. She needs me, she longs for the times when I
return home. I exhale and embrace this
burden, this role, this responsibility, this love.
We walk arm in arm down the streets that I have known for so
long. The past diminishes. The Bayside
Oaks of my childhood is fading. The streets grow smaller, the houses disappear
and are replaced by ones I do not recognize.
Trees, small when I was a child, are now large. They send their roots under the sidewalk and
lift the concrete. The path is uneven,
and I hold on tight to my mother so she does not lose her footing. I will hold on as long as I can.
David Raphael © 2005
