Groundhog Day

Not a good night last night with my mom, unfortunately.

In fact, in some form of mild protest over her situation (and mine), I dropped Joe off at St. Patrick's this morning for church and, when Jude arrived with J.P. from his first communion Sunday school class, I left.  I needed a few quiet minutes to process my thoughts and feelings, so I drove over to Bongo Java East.  I'm drinking a cappuccino and watching a depressing mixture of rain and snow fall outside, as I listen to Bon Iver's "For Emma, Forever Ago."

Yesterday, I picked up my mom from Maristone about 3 p.m. and took her to J.P.'s basketball game at Oak Hill.  On the drive up, I could see she was mildly confused about our relationship and how Jude, J.P. and Joe fit into things.  She seems to be apprehensive about being around Jude, I guess because she's confused about the fact that Jude and I are married.  Or something.  Shit, I don't know.  I really don't.

Getting her into the gym safely was a real task because Oak Hill just doesn't have good handicapped access to the school, at least not on weekends.  It's funny how you can go your entire life without noticing something like that until it directly impacts you, how you're getting around or how you have to help someone else get around.  With help from some of the other parents, I was able to get her up three sets of stairs, back on her walker, in the gym and seated in a metal folding chair.  Jude's parents arrived and with an assist from Jim and Jane, I moved her over to a seat in the middle with them while I kept the scorebook at the scorer's table during J.P.'s game.

In what turned out to be a futile effort to avoid the confusion that plagued her last time I took her back to Maristone at nightfall, I suggested we have dinner at our house.  Jude graciously agreed and my mom and Jude's parents joined us for dinner.  The boys had a good time showing my mom ("Meemaw" to them) how their hockey game worked.  She had a bit of hard time following what we were watching on television - the NHL All-Star Game skills contest - bit she did relatively well.

The fun started when I left our house about 7:15 p.m. to return her to Maristone.  As was the case the last time she was with me at night, she began to get more and more confused as we drove.  She started asking me questions about Jude and me, how Jude was handling the divorce, etc.  I was frustrated and I tried to cut her off, reminding her that she was my mom, I was her son, Jude and I had been married for almost 15 years and that J.P. and Joe are my boys.  She didn't get it, didn't believe it and began to get irritated and confused.

When I turned off of Royal Oaks Boulevard, she asked me where we were going.  As I pulled into the driveway at Maristone, she said, "I can't stay here.  Take me home."

"This is where you live, mom," I said.

"No it's not," she replied.  "Please take me home!" she repeated, this time pleading, her voice rising.  "I have to take care of the dog.  All of my clothes are at home."

When I told her again, more firmly than I probably should have that Maristone is where she lived, she started crying.

I ignored her entreaties and her tears - and tried to ignore my tears - as I retrieved he walker from the back of my truck.  She obediently shuffled into Maristone behind me, despondent.  We rode the elevator up to the second floor, unlocked the door to her apartment and went inside.  After she went to the bathroom, my mom sat in her chair - which I've grown to despise - because she sits in it, sleeps in it and really, rarely leaves it.  She put her head in her hands, refused to even look at me and sighed deeply.

And, just like in a twisted, devastatingly depressing version of the movie "Groundhog Day," here we were again.  My mom's heart breaking as she realized for what, to her, was the first time, that I'm not her husband.  And, even worse, to her, that when I walked out her door, I was going home to another woman and another family.  The pain and sadness on her face was real.

I sat on the ottoman in front of her chair and tried to talk to her.  I tried to make her understand who I was and how much I loved her, as a son and not as a husband.  More than maybe I've ever wanted anything before in my life, I wanted to momentarily pierce the veil of dementia or Alzheimer's disease that is strangling her brain and just have one more conversation with my mom.  And, of course, I couldn't.

The person I was talking to was not my mom.  It looked like her and the voice was the same, but it wasn't her.  And you know what?  My mom is never coming back.  Never.

I have to find a way to love this new person in the same, or similar, way I loved my mom, without it destroying me.        

Joe Time

This morning, before school for Joe and work for me, we went to Belmont U. (or "Belmont School," as J.P. used to call it) to throw the football.  There's a big, wide open space in the atrium, inside, that leads into the gym.  Joe was excited from the moment we arrived, running ahead of me with the football, almost dancing with excitement across the floor.

First, we peaked in the Curb Center, because it was open and we could see someone playing basketball.  I laughed when I saw my old friend, Scott Corley, playing in a rag-tag pickup game.  I've known Scott since he was in junior high and his family moved into my neighborhood.  Scott played basketball at Belmont U. and recently was named the athletic director.  It's been great to reconnect with him through our affiliation as "sidewalk alumni" of the school.

We lined up - me in my suit and dress shoes - and played 2-hand touch football in the atrium.  As students and teacher hurried by, on the way to class or to grab a quick breakfast, several stopped for a minute, smiled and watched us play.  If I missed touching Joe with two hands, he was off to the races,  running straight toward the stairs before pulling up and spiking the football to celebrate a make believe touchdown.

When it was time to go, we rode the elevator downstairs at Joe's request.  He always has loved the elevator there.  As we walked to my truck, I stopped to high five the 3 statues by the fountain outside the entrance to Belmont U. on Belmont Boulevard.  J.P. and I used to do that and it never ceased to amuse him.  Joe giggled, then outright laughed when I threw the football to the statues and told them "nice try" when it bounced off their arms.  There is nothing better than the unbridled, innocent laughter of a happy 4 (almost 5) year old.

As I drove him to school, we animatedly described how cool it would be if the statues came to life.  Joe said, "they're chasing us!  Go!"  We laughed all the way to school.

Joe time.

Another Long Dark Night of the Soul

Last night, for me, was the low point for me with my mom.

Things started out okay when I picked her up and took her to Kaitlyn's (my niece and her granddaughter) basketball game at Overton High School.  It was slow going at first, as my mom had misplaced her purse and it's just a chore to get her out her apartment at Maristone, downstairs and into my truck.  We made it to the game as the first quarter was ending.

She sat between Gary (my brother-in-law) and me on the first row of the bleachers and watched the game intently.  Other than being a little too intense and thinking every foul should have been called on Antioch High School - which is actually the way she always has been when watching one of us play sports - she was fine.

Things began to go downhill when I was driving her home after the game, as darkness fell.

As an aside, sunset is when my mom seems to get the most confused and rattled.  It's called "Sundowner's Syndrome."  It's apparently pretty common among people who have Alzheimer's or other forms of dementia.  Like so much of what she's dealing with, it sucks, plain and simple.

I picked up dinner for the two of us at Brockton's in Cool Springs, so we could eat at her place and watch the end of the Tennessee-Nebraska game (Music City Bowl).  She became more confused when we arrived at Maristone and I helped her inside.  She didn't understand why she would be spending the night there and argued with me about it.  Then, she told another resident that she was only staying the night and would be going back to her house the next morning.

As we walked into her apartment on the second floor and I began to help her get settled in, she asked me if I was going to stay the night.  She hadn't done that in a while.  "Of course not," I replied.  "I have family at home, including JP and Joe, who need me to be there when they go to sleep."

Stunned, my mom looked at me with grief - not sadness, but pure, unadulterated grief on her face.  She was on the verge of tears.

"Does anyone else know?" she asked plaintively.

"Does anyone else know what?"  I responded.

"That we're getting divorced." she said, her voice quivering with emotion.  "Does any of the rest of the family know?  Grandmother.  Sue (her sister).  Ann (her sister).

My heart sank.  "Mom, we're not married.  I'm your son.  I was born in Bakersfield in 1966.  Tracy is your daughter.  She was born in 1968 in Vista, California.  Your husband - my dad - was Howard Newman.  He died in 1971 and we moved back to Tennessee."  My voice was fraught with emotion, as I tried desperately to convince her of the true nature of our shared history.

"I didn't birth you," she continued.  "Does the family know we're getting a divorce?"

"Mom, Grandmother, Sue and Ann are dead.  Tracy, Alice and I are your family."  Practically pleading with her, I said, "you were the best mother ever!  You did everything for the three of us."

She looked right at me, still stunned but with a look on he face that confirmed in her mind, she was getting this news for the first time.  She was heartbroken and refused to eat.  When I asked why, she said "Why do you think?  I've never heard any of this before you told me."  One last time, she asked "we're not married?"

"No," I replied.  "We're not."

My mom just stared down at the food on her tray.

There's more, but I just can't relive it right now.  I told her goodbye, then left and drove home on the verge of tears.  Angry, hopeless and as sad as I have ever been in my life.

Happy New Year.  2016 was bad, but 2017 is going to be worse.