I've been coming here a lot lately. The coffee is fantastic and the people are nice. It's hard to explain, but sometimes there is a vibe in a coffee house that makes me feel like I can stop in and stop time for a half hour or 45 minutes, sort of recharge my batteries and get myself centered to start or finish a long day. A part of me needs that right now and I can't get it at Bongo Java anymore, which is another story for another day.
The work space in the Factory is unique. Wide open, lots of tables with people collaborating on projects throughout the day. I guess this is the new economy in some sense, the new way business gets done.
Friday afternoon, I slipped away from work - prepping for a deposition on Monday - and took mom some ice cream from Jeni's. Ndali Estate Vanilla and Milkiest Chocolate. I was swamped, as usual, at work, but something told me I needed to see my mom, so I did. She loved the ice cream. I mean, really loved it. I think it was a rare treat for her and maybe, just maybe, it dislodged some lost memory or fired a sensory input that reminded her happier times. I'd like to think her mind flashed back, however briefly, to eating ice cream on hot summer days as a child or with us at Baskin Robbins when we were children.
It was a pleasant visit, just the two of us. As she ate her ice cream, I noticed she seemed to be a bit subdued. It's hard to explain but or to put my finger on, but somehow the light in her eyes was dimmer in a noticeable way. She seemed weary, I guess is how I would put it. It's so hard to see a woman who was so vibrant, with a larger than life personality - always laughing, joking and kidding - be reduced to this person she is now.
There are times when I still rail internally against the unfairness of it all, like the fact that so many women her age - so many of her peers and friends, in fact - are still active, involved and just living life. And because she lost the genetic lottery, one I may lose as well, she's reduced to living out her final days in a state of confusion and relative solitude as what is left of her memory leaks away every day.
I know - I really know - I can't go to that place in my mind because it's simply not productive or healthy to think and feel that way, not for more than a few moments. It's like staring at the sun as a child. You know you shouldn't do it, but it's hard not to just the same, at least for a second or two.
Tracy validated my fears when she sent a text last night to update us on her visit to see mom yesterday afternoon. A couple of the regular caregivers told Tracy that mom seemed tired and that she had not been motoring around in her wheelchair like she normally does. She's slipping away from us, I'm afraid, and it breaks my damn heart.
I would give everything I own to have one more conversation with her, like we did every day before the cruel thief that is Alzheimer's disease began to steal her away from us, piece by piece. Just one more time to call her, to hear her laugh at something funny I said. To take about the latest sports news or to share with her something JP or Joe had said or done.
Sometimes this is so hard.
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