This piece is inspired by a story my friend, Jordan Cuba, shared at her father’s funeral about having “two Dads,” one before and one after Alzheimer’s. She got this concept from an Instagram post by “lifeloveandalzheimers.” Below I am writing to my first Mom, the one before Alzheimer’s.
Dear Mom,
Happy Mother’s Day. On most of my mother’s days with you, you woke up to flowers on the table from Dad, and frustration about how Dad was off to his Sunday band practice. You’d say, “don’t those band members have mother’s that they want to celebrate?” You laughed it off because you knew that you would get to spend the day with your children. On Mother’s Day, instead of being celebrated, you honored being a mother and continued being the best mom to us. You would spend your morning on the phone with Nefthi, who was not usually physically with you on Mother’s Day but was always the first to call. You cooked the best breakfast for me and Neril, because it meant we’d all get to eat together. And then somehow, I got the benefit out of the day when you would take me out shopping and buy me a few things. I didn’t realize then what I know now, which is that you celebrated yourself by pouring into us because it genuinely made you happy to do so. That’s why I know this diagnosis is much more detrimental than I can ever realize. Because now we are left taking care of you and being the strong one for you, which is what you never wanted.
Mom, I know you would be so proud of all of us. Neril is almost two years sober, kicking butt in his new career move, and in a strong and happy relationship with his beautiful girlfriend. Nefthi and Nana are raising the two best kids ever, while Nefthi continues to make huge strides professionally. They both continue to honor their role as my big brothers. I, on the other hand, am stirring up trouble. Making Dad, Nefthi, and Neril go to support groups to face their emotions about your diagnosis and express my emotions like you always told me to. I know there are times where you’re telling me to breathe, “inhale and exhale”, you would say. “I am trying” I say back. But I honor the parts of you that we have lost, every day. I always make sure to put on perfume, every elephant I see I pay extra attention to (even the ugly decorative ones), lipstick is a must when going out to dinner, hair masks are essential, treat animals with just as much respect as humans, there’s no such thing as being comfortable without a big blanket on, and always make sure to share how I’m feeling, since that’s not what always happens in our family. I do all these things knowing that the parts of you that I have lost are right by my side.
You always taught me strength. It was your biggest core value and you showed me how to be strong. So, every day, I am strong for you. But believe it or not, I have met some pretty wonderful people in the journey of Alzheimer’s. I met two young men, Dave and Eric, who were unfortunately on this crappy journey as well and they have helped me more than I ever thought someone could. I have met several spouses of people suffering from Alzheimer’s, who are mothers and remind me of what you would have wanted for me. But more than anything, the diagnosis has allowed me to be so utterly grateful for all that you are and all that you were. I take every piece of advice you gave me and use it every day. I take all of the strength and perseverance you taught me, and I use it to not only advocate for myself, but to advocate for you. So this Mother’s Day, I pour back into you by pouring into myself. I bet you didn’t realize that everything you taught me would come back to help you as well.
So happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You poured into us on your day, and that has allowed us to pour back into you at the time when you need it. You would be proud of all of us, even yourself.
Love,
Nelly
