It’s been nine months since my mom passed away. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what she was like before she got dementia.
It’s ironic that my most vivid memories of her are of her last few days, when she declined so rapidly and there was only life leaking out of her. And enormous sadness. I try to put those memories aside and remember the good stuff.
Like how mom would patiently sing me to sleep with Brahms lullaby when I was little (a little insomniac).
And the way she would make up games for my sister Linda and me, to encourage us to eat our French toast at lunch, which she’d cut up into bite-size squares to make it more fun to eat.
And of course, we had the prettiest mom on the block – she always looked so elegant and beautifully dressed.
I remember too, how she put together a handwritten notebook of all her best recipes before we went away to university in Ottawa, hoping against hope that we’d actually cook.
There were lots of other happy memories, too. Unfortunately, these somehow get eclipsed by her years of dementia, which were so fraught and unpredictable.
It’s too bad parents don’t come equipped with a “How-To Manual for Having Kids.”
Most just learn on the job. It’s also unfortunate that kids don’t come with a “How-To Manual for Having Parents.” We also just learn on the job.
I’m not sure whose job is harder. It may be instinctual for some, but most of us just fumble along and do the best we can. Imperfection is ultimately the norm. One thing is for sure: Parenting is not for sissies.
That being said, this is what I want to remember about my mom: that she loved us deeply in her own way, even if it wasn’t always easy for her to show it. No matter the anger or disrespect I showed her in my growing-up years (of which I’m not proud), she continued to love me. In that regard, her memory was short, but kind.
As Honore de Balzac said, “The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness.”
True that.
For those of you out there who are lucky enough to still have your mothers, I just want to echo what writer Rachel Wolchin said:
“Call your Mother.
Tell her you love her.
Remember, you’re the only person
who knows what her heart sounds like
from the inside.”
Shelley Civkin is a retired communications officer.
