A Good Enough Mother

More Than A Good Enough Mother...
She says it every time I leave. “Be careful.” That’s nothing new. I am fifty three and I can barely recall a time she did not say it, whether my departure was connected to a half hour grocery errand or an overseas trip. For those of you who don’t know, the Irish have the ability to say anything but that which they feel most deeply. So, "Be careful" is really code for “I love you.” Who ever said people with Alzheimer’s can’t remember things? 
There are so many people diagnosed and so there are so many stories, and the similarities are probably astounding in many ways. For us, it started with sending three Christmas cards to the same person. Leaving the kettle on. Not being able to order herself in a restaurant. The waiter would always have to come back to her. I’d say, “red wine” and she’d have that also. I would whisper, “Change hers to white” to him when he was leaving. 
That was just the beginning and then like stages of grief, there are stages of Alzheimer’s and stages for how you handle it. It would come as no surprise to anyone who knows her that her language aptitude and usage is the last to go. In fact, when I took her to a doctor/researcher from Mt. Sinai a few years ago for an assessment and recommendations on the latest clinical trials and what should come next, she defied all odds. “She is scoring in the 93rd percentile for language – I mean 93rd in the general population.” Scratching her head, the doctor seemed to feel the need to clarify that. In the other sections of the assessment, her abilities and skills had considerably declined but even at the point she was at, she could out express everyone save seven percent of the population. You learn to thank god for small favors. 
She has the best seat in the house in the facility where she is. You can compare it to the corner office, though she was way too straightforward and humble to have ever earned one of those. Tucked away with a flat screen TV and a dining table right outside her bedroom. Again, you learn to thank god for small favors. 
And then you thank God for big favors. She lost her only son and my only sibling four years ago. She knew but not for long. She asks about him all the time and sometimes when I arrive, she tells me he just left and she points to where he was standing and describes the conversation. That she has no awareness of his death is one of the bigger favors I have ever experienced. 
I miss her companionship. She was not only the friend you could call at 3 in the morning. She was the friend that at 3 am would get into the car with you if you wanted to impulsively drive clear across the country. I missed her when Ted Kennedy died because we shared the same vision of the worthiness of a life of hard work toward attempted redemption. Most recently, she would have shared the same sentiment as I did of the loss of the great Irish comedian Hal Roach. There are multiple reminders of the loss of her presence every day in my life. I miss her all the time. 
For the twenty years she lived with us, as a coffee drinker myself, I hated making tea. The bag always seemed messy to me, it was an extra task in too busy of a life. Having to get up long after the coffee was seemingly so easily brewed, I used to wish to God she liked coffee and that her Irish friends did also, quite an unlikelihood but a wish nonetheless. But life has a funny way of coming back at you. Ironically, it is now bringing her something sweet to eat and making tea for her in the kitchen of her facility that is often the greatest pleasure of my day. 
There are many other ironies – the fact that she lived with us for two decades and that when many older people move in with their families, her debilitating physical ailments along with Alzheimer’s made her have to live out. It doesn’t seem right. Or, that I worked for long term care insurance at MetLife and spent years writing the copy for brochures and newsletters and press releases, completely unconnected on an emotional level to what losing the ability to perform 3 out of the 5 daily activities of living really means. I know now. 
One of the greatest joys of having a great mother is the identification you get to experience in literature, and psychology, movies and religion and music. Mothers make for the greatest material. I love Winicott for his “good enough mother” theory. I have always loved “Terms of Endearment” for the scene where Shirley MacLean remains bug eyed for hours rather than risking falling asleep when she knows she is going to lose her daughter. It is Mary and St Ann I identify with and pray to. I always loved the Irish song, “A mother’s love is a blessing” even if the refrain “you’ll never miss your mother’s love until she is buried beneath the clay” always seemed unnecessarily morose to me. 
But now, every time I still hear “Be careful” when I am leaving, I know what those seemingly morose words mean. She is not buried beneath the clay. And so I do not yet miss her love.