My mother taught me how to hug. I mean really, really hug. Not in the polite way much of society hugs these days, but in full body to body contact, with arms pulling you in tight to seal the deal. You mean a lot to me; my mother says through her hugs. You matter to me, and I am so glad that you are in my life, and right now, with this gesture, I share all that I am with all that you are.
B once told me, after we had been together for years, that my hug was one of the first things that attracted her to me. That, and of course my sparkling personality.
As I was getting ready to come back home from my last trip to Alabama, I went to tell my mother goodbye, and that I would see her again in a few weeks. She was in bed, where she spends most of her time now, and I leaned down to give her a hug and a kiss. I wrapped my arms under her back, and felt hers around me. And then, she caught me off guard. She pulled me in and held me to her chest, hugging me tight, tighter than she had in quite a while, a hug like I remembered. We held each other tight for a long moment, and then she told me that she loved me. I replied I loved her too, and I would see her soon.
It would seem like a typical, everyday moment between a mother and a daughter, except for the fact that my mother is succumbing to dementia. For shorthand purposes, I usually tell people she has Alzheimer’s. For the last year or so, she has been in a stage of confusion as to who exactly her children are, and who she is and how she fits in with everything around her. If you’ve ever been around been around anyone in these later stages of dementia, you know they will ask the same question over and over again, mostly in an effort to clear the confusion in their own brains as to who they are, and how they fit into the second by second, minute by minute world that is happening around them. We call my mother’s pattern of questions, “the loop.”
Dementia caregiver guides tell you to patiently and calmly answer the “loop” questions again and again, which we do, but I can tell you that simple caregiver advice is pure bullshit. The crap you see on Facebook or well-meaning memes leaves out the fact that if you love and care for a person living in dementia, what you will likely be experiencing is a combination of frustration, grief, and a tumbling need to hang on to your own sanity. Sometimes that frustration, or grief, or your own fading sanity, will result in a raised voice, or an ignored question, or a body posture that expresses everything you wish you could say, but your conscience won’t allow you. I know that sometimes, even though they may not be able to understand anything other than a simple sentence, or remember what happened two seconds ago, they feel those moments, And when you walk away from those moments, you wonder why you can’t be more understanding, or saintly, or why your love is not enough to turn you into a superhuman who can rise above the constant moments of frustration and grief.
When my mother pulled me in for that hug, I knew in that moment she knew exactly who I was, and that she loved me, and that by pulling me tight to her chest, she was sharing all that she is with all that I am; her loving daughter, her sometimes confidant; her travel companion; and in our later years, her friend and protector.
Right now, all I feel when I remember that moment is grief; grief for all that is happening now, for all that is gone, and for all that will never be again. But I know for certain that is not what she would want me to remember. I know for certain she would want me to remember that hug was her way of sharing all that she is, and all that I am, and that she loves me, and she knows I love her. For all the times and ways I have failed her, and will fail her in the future, she wanted me to know that.
Of that I am certain. Her arms told me so.