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.