This Demented Life: A Flash Blog

Posted on

Suitcase of Memories

We have two suitcases to fill. She said she wanted to travel lean, that she didn’t want to pack any mementos. Like the black-and-white photo of her father playing the banjo. The wooden buildings she carefully hand painted and sold in our village. The floral watercolors she painted over the years.

“None of that,” she said.

I packed them anyway.

Her house is a living museum, a tribute to a successful artist, writer, gourmet cook. And it’s a tribute to an eclectic woman: the teapot, hat and pig collections, the entire corner dedicated to all things King Henry VIII.

The house is winterized; the museum is frozen in time. She didn’t say it outright, but I know she thought this:

“These are just things. I keep them in my heart…even when I forget the words and memories.”

Her memories, my memories—our memories—live on in whatever space we inhabit.

Posted on

Busting A Move

We’re a week from mom’s big move to Arizona, a week away from our new beginning. Another week of fear, anxiety, doubt.

I wanted to find the perfect place. I’ve toured a dozen care homes between Maine and Arizona. I wanted to keep her in Maine.

But waiting lists are long. No care home is perfect. There’s beauty in imperfection, I’m learning, and perfectionism is a dubious honor.

A cross-country move is challenging for anyone. When I moved to California two decades ago, I traded familiarity for the unknown, rootless and disjointed for months. It won’t be any easier for an 82-year-old woman with dementia.

This I know. Yet the crippling self-doubt diminishes when I let go of fear. I haven’t given up, I’ve surrendered. And in accepting the situation, I’m ready to move on to better things.

In the wise words from a supportive friend: “NO DECISION IS WRONG. ESPECIALLY WHEN OUR HEART LEADS.”

Photo Credit: Larry Tenney (@ltenney1)
Posted on

New Beginnings

This year, I’m taking my life back. Sounds selfish, doesn’t it?

In reality, I’m just one piece of the puzzle.

The other pieces? My husband. Our marriage. And my mother.

As primary caregiver to a mother with Alzheimer’s, I’ve given up a lot over the years. Career. Life with my husband. Friends. And I’ve given a lot. Time. Compassion. Love.

Now it’s time for a new beginning. The sensory overload of the holidays, combined with subzero temperatures and a marked decline in her abilities make it clear that mom needs more help than I can give.

I’ll move her out west, where I’ve lived for thirty-odd years. It won’t be easy, but we’ll get through it together.

Regaining my life isn’t a resolution, if I live a day at a time. Every day, I try to do a little better.

Every day, a new beginning.