Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Delaney
Istep back and gaze at the collection of items before me.
There’s a small birdhouse, a beautiful floral-patterned journal with only a few pages used, and a plaque that reads Nursing Assistant of the Year, Hattie Larson.
Those mementos, along with a few photographs of Mom and me, Mom’s gardens, and one of her and Pat, are my attempt to depict who Mom was before Alzheimer’s.
Mom sits in her wheelchair watching television in her room, seemingly unaware of the near meltdown I’m having as I stare at her My Story box.
I notice someone approaching in my peripheral vision, but I don’t turn to see who it is.
Instead, I continue the fight to hold back my emotional reaction to the display, and I absentmindedly run my fingers over the satiny fabric I’m holding.
“It’s beautiful, Delaney. It tells me a lot about your mom.” Lydia’s voice is reverent, but reassuring.
I can’t look at her, afraid if I do I won’t be able to hold it together.
“I wanted to do a really good job, but it’s more difficult than I thought it would be.”
Lydia doesn’t reply but stands in silent support by my side. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but she’s become indispensable to me. It brings me peace of mind knowing she comes here to visit or feed Mom several times a week.
“I know what all these items represent and how perfectly they speak to who she is, but… but people who didn’t know her before, they’ll never get to know that version of her.
They can look at these items all day, but they’ll never know how amazing she was.
How generous and patient. How loved she is. ”
Lydia places a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not for them, Delaney. Okay, maybe a little for people to get a glimpse of who she was, but it’s honoring her.
It’s for you, Pat, and Mrs. Nicker—all who love her.
On those days when it’s really rough, and you feel like she’s forgetting more, you can spend a minute here remembering what a wonderful and vibrant person she is. ”
I turn my head to face her. “Is? Don’t you mean was?” My words leave my mouth in a hushed tone.
Lydia squeezes my shoulder and smiles.
“No, honey. I mean is. Dementia steals memories, but it can’t steal who we are.
Even if someone has forgotten everything, they still possess the qualities that the people who love them recognize.
Yes, your mom doesn’t remember these parts of who she is, but you do.
So, she’s still that woman because you hold the memories here—” she pauses and points at her head, “—and here.” Lydia places her hand over her heart.
The evidence of my pain and sorrow now rushes down my cheeks in hot streams.
“I have one more thing to put up there.”
I lean forward and grasp one of the tacks I’ve been using to secure items onto the burlap-covered board. I carefully pin up the blue ribbon I’m holding. It fits perfectly at the center of the board.
I stare at the “#1 Mom” inscription in the clumsy handwriting of my grade-school self. Then I step back, shut, and lock the plexiglass cover.
“That’s perfect,” Lydia says. “Now, what do you say we go give Hattie her evening ice cream, and you can tell me all about the items you included?”
I can’t manage words right now, so I simply nod.
Over the next half hour, Lydia feeds Mom her pistachio ice cream—another of her favorites. While they’re doing that, I sit on the side of Mom’s bed going through the eighteen—yes, I counted correctly—journals Mom has amassed over the years.
Mom seems to recognize them and reaches for one every once in a while.
“Do you remember these, Hattie? It seems you like them.”
I smile at Mom and hand her the butterfly-covered journal she’s reaching for, then glance up at Lydia. “Mom loves journals. She’d start writing in them and keep it up for a few days—maybe even weeks sometimes—but then forget, or a new one would catch her eye, and she’d move on.”
Lydia chuckles.
“That sounds like me with planners, Hattie.” I love how she talks to Mom and doesn’t exclude her from conversations. “I can’t tell you how many planners I have at home that I started then abandoned.”
I laugh, and the sound startles me. I never expected the veil of sadness I felt earlier would lift so quickly.
“Me too! That’s my issue, right, Mom? I’m a planner hussy.”
Mom glances at me and smiles slightly. It’s gone as rapidly as it came on, but I’m thrilled, regardless.
“I think I’ll leave a few of these on her shelf over there. Maybe she’ll find some joy in them still. She seems to favor the nature-themed ones.”
“She does,” Lydia notes.
We both peer at Mom as she clutches the butterfly one and one with daisies on it with both of her hands.
I return my attention to rummaging around in the box. I hope to find one or two more to keep here.
I gasp when I find a dark blue journal, the one with stars on it.
“Oh, my God. How did I forget about this one?” I remove it from the box and grip it to my chest.
“Mom, it’s our journal.” I notice Lydia silently observing me, and I smile at her.
“We’d take turns writing in here. When one of us made an entry, then we’d leave it somewhere the other would find it, and they’d know it was their turn to write back.
She started it when I was around nine and asked about my father a lot.
It was incredibly difficult for me to understand why he didn’t want to be part of our family, why he didn’t want me. ”
I turn my gaze to the journal and run a finger over the words on the page. Mom’s words. My words. I look up at Lydia.
“So, a lot of feelings came out on these pages, and we kept it up for years.”
I thumb through the aged pages, then turn to the end to see when we last wrote. What I find confuses me. It’s full of incomprehensible scribbles. The only two words I can make out are ‘joy’ and part of my name.
“What the heck?” I mutter. I flip backward and find several handwritten notes from my mom. Her writing near the end is far less legible than the earlier entries.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia’s voice drips with concern, and I lift my eyes to hers.
“Nothing’s wrong. But… but it looks like my mom wrote to me again, quite often, after her diagnosis.”
I hold the open journal up for a moment so she can see it, and her eyes widen while her jaw drops open. She stares at it for a few seconds, then closes her mouth.
“Wow, Delaney. What a gift,” she whispers. All I’m able to do is nod. Just a few minutes later, Lydia excuses herself, citing plans with her significant other. I suspect she is just giving me some space to process.
When it’s just me and Mom left, I climb off the bed and sit in the chair Lydia had occupied. I open the journal to the first ‘new’ entry. It’s dated November of the year I started college.
Dear Delaney,
Today I got some difficult news. My memory loss isn’t stress or some abnormality in my lab work. I’ve learned that I am in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. It explains why I’ve been struggling to remember things and function normally on some days.
It breaks my heart, knowing how much this will hurt you when you find out. If I could take that away, I would.
Promise me one thing: take a minute to be sad, if you need to, but then promise you’ll allow the notes in here to bring you comfort, not more pain.
What I write in here won’t always be profound, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up, but I will as long as I can.
You have been the greatest joy of my life, Delly—the hands-down best thing I ever did. Remember that.
Love,
Mom
She was right. I was heartbroken all those years ago when I learned of her diagnosis, and it still hurts to this day. Even though I didn’t keep my promise to take care of her at home, I can promise her I’ll do my best to let her words comfort me. This is an oath I can keep.
I dig around in my bag until I find the pen I keep stashed in it. I leave a space after Mom’s first entry, then write the date. Below that, I write in this book for the first time in several years.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for this. You always knew what I needed before I did. I promise, and I remember. I remember you, the #1 Mom, and I remember the memories we made over the years. These two things will always be true.
Love,
Delly
No one has used Mom’s nickname for me in years, and it touches my heart to see it in her handwriting today.
My thoughts are interrupted when two of Mom’s aides come in to get her changed and ready for bed. I’m surprised—pleasantly so—when I realize that I’m okay not doing it myself tonight. It dawns on me: I trust them. I trust them to care for the most important person in my world.
I stand. “Thanks, you two,” I tell the aides. Then I turn my attention back to my mom, and I bend down and kiss her on the cheek.
“Bye, Mom. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”