Unpleasant duties ahead this week. Have I mentioned how much I hate Alzheimer's? It not only robs your loved ones of their memories of you . . . but taints and buries your fondest memories of them, with the pain and rejection of the confused, occasionally angry, bitter people they have become.
Tough love is supposed to be what you, as parents, give your children -- those times when you bear the pain of their anger and seeming loss of their love
BECAUSE you love them that much. If you would die for them, you should be willing to bear that, too.
I have known that; I have had to practice that.
I never, ever thought that role would be reversed, where I, the child, would have to experience the same pain doing what is right, but painful, for my own parents.
This past week, anticipating -- dreading, really -- the next stage of care needed for my mother, I have deliberately tried to remember the way she was, not that long ago. The laughter, the twinkle in her eyes, the feisty courage of a 5-2 Scots-Irish heroine who taught me how to fight, ride a bike, throw a ball, the conditionless love and support, the hours at night spent helping me pass math, ace spelling tests . . . the times when I was sick, her cool hand on my brow, the soft prayers.
Now, that woman is . . .
gone. What is left has slipped into the cloudiness, confusion, paranoia and anger of the disease. So, my heart goes out to all of my generation dealing with parents suffering from this horrible disease.
My mother is gone. What is left is a shell, and the love we give her is unreturned. Not out of spite, but out of inability to understand it. I know that.
But I cannot just let this go.
I know, the rest of what is left of my mother will some day, and if there is mercy, soon, join what has already passed on. But I will find a way to honor her -- and my father, also in his final days. There will be some way I can fight Alzheimer's, some way to comfort others suffering from, and with this disease.
I will find it.
