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Sunday Visit with Momma  Sunday Visit with Momma This story was written by my sister Beverly for a College English class in 2009 I drive down the shady, bumpy road leading to Momma's house. I pull into the gravel driveway, and stop for a moment, collecting my thoughts and gathering my courage. I step out of my car and stand there on the cracked sidewalk where I used to ride my bike and play hopscotch. I gaze up at the trees, which seemed so much larger when I was a child. I press on, and approach the door. I had not called in advance to let Paula, my youngest sister, know that I was coming. But I knew she would be there. She is always there, strong and committed like a fierce warrior guarding a prized possession. A single mom of two teenagers, Paula is tough, vigilant and undeterred. All of the things I wish I could be. She faces a monumental task, and I consider for a split second the amount of strenth necessary for her constant, unwavering preseverance. My very patient, but very tired sister, answers the door with a smile. "Come on in, Honey. She's awake", she says. I think to myself how difficult it must be, to live there in our childhood home every day. I cannot bear the thought of witnessing the gradual, but imminent decline. Then, very slowly, my elderly but still beautiful Mother comes into the room. She is clutching her aged and blind poodle, whom she lovingly calls baby. He is always in her arms, a sense of security to cling to. Thoughts are racing through my mind, quickly flashing, like a strobe light. Will she remember me today? Will she cry about losing Daddy again today? Will she remember my children's names today? Will she become angry about something that is stuck heavy in her mind like an anchor, that she cannot release? Will she be happy and cheerful, singing a haunting melody from her childhood that I have never heard? Probably, all will occur during my short visit. Mom has Alzheimer's, the disease that slowly robs her of her entire being. It has taken everything, her sense of self, her dignity, her very soul. In her moments of clarity, while in the moderate stage of illness, she knew that she had it. She knew that she had just repeated a question or statement because of a vague sense of deja vu. She knew because of the way people looked at her. How utterly painful and fearful it must have been for her in the beginning, when she knew. How sad to lose her most precious, intimate thoughts and memories of a lifetime of loving and caring for a husband for forty-eight years. To no longer recognize that he was the love of her life, the only one. How tragic to raise six children, and now have fourteen grandchildren, the names of which she cannot remember. To once upon a time, have been a strong, God fearing mother. An undeniable life force. The very essence of womanhood. To be loved and adored. Always protected. To now become an empty shell of her former self. Beautiful faces seem so familiar. Photographs invoke a sense of longing. All is unknown; all is lost. How thankful I am now, that she no longer realizes what she has lost. |
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