As I watch my mother become the little girl she use to be, the little girl inside of me wants to run up and pull on her gown to get her attention. I want her to look at me with a spark of recognition in her eyes when I say " Frances" which is my name for her.
She is changing in front of me and as I take the front seat of this nightmare I don't want to be here but I know that I must. It is a necessary 'heartache' because there is no way to avoid it if I stand by my belief that it is a part of what I am supposed to do as her daughter. She needs me now just as I needed her so many years ago.
When I take her by both hands to stop her from falling, I picture myself as a little girl being led by her hands as she taught me how to walk. I am sure she encouraged me and cheered to keep me focused on her instead of the fear of falling that was walking with me. I see that look in her eyes now. She is begging me to please hold her up. She is now afraid of falling not just because she is walking but because she is sliding further and further every day into a well of memories she no longer recognizes and there is no way to grab ahold of anything and stop dementia from taking her deep into the bowels of this well of memory loss.
I can however try and slow the decline into the deep by being by her side, holding her hands, comforting her with my words and my presence. There are times she puts her hand on my face and softly says," My babies." She remembers who I am. She remembers if even in flashes that she has children that she has birthed to carry on the memory she is now losing.
It is a gut wrenching, memory stealing moment in my life. A story I don't know if I can emotionally write about anytime soon. I capture the moments in my heart and mind not knowing if and when I will be able to capture them on paper and bound them in print version one day.
Dementia has a cruel-unavoidable end to it's plot and I hate it! I hate how the story will end because the 'good-guy' won't win in this tale.
