The Caretaker of Memories
By Victoria Rosen
She comes to me a lot when I’m in the bath. As I’m about to shave or wash myself, images of me washing her come back, like a veteran with PTSD. Flashes of me drying her legs off with her favorite towel. Images of me holding her arms as I tried to use enough cream to beat away the crepey oldness of hers. Brushing her wet hair like a toddler fresh from a bath. Her eyes looking up at me because she is suddenly so old and so small. Her still seeing me but no longer seeing herself. What she has become. What I have become to her. It feels like a minefield of grief. For every safe step of a memory, there are even more of sadness.
There is something that happens to you once you’ve crossed the line into being a real caregiver of your parent. The day, that moment, when you realize you have to help her get undressed, get off the toilet bowl, take a shower. It may start small. Help getting an earring in. Tying a shoe. Walking her to the door. That dynamic, that change that happens silently, while inside you are screaming like a child for it to stop, is something that cannot be explained to those who don’t know. Those who still live in the ignorant, quiet bliss of having a functioning mother or father. The smile you wear on your face, telling her everything is okay, you realize is the same one she once wore at night when sending you back to bed. It sends a panic right to the very soul of you, because it is wrong and yet somehow, true.
How long this goes on for dramatically alters the effects it will have on your life. For me, it was over ten years of caring for my mother. She suffered with vascular dementia and was horrifyingly aware that it was happening for the first half of it. That fear, that dread of what was to come, was a fact hanging over our heads together. Because what do you say to someone who knows they are losing their mind? There are no words. No hope. No kiss to make it all better. The storm cloud that was slowly encompassing our lives never let up and you just have to sit and watch as it drenches your heart with sorrow. Rinsing away all the memories. Watch as it steals away books read and loved. Television shows, favorite movies and crossword puzzles. Deleting all of her words. This big eraser in her mind, going through an entire life, wiping out people who she once loved, hated or just knew. Places, events and so much laughter. But then thankfully, so much heartache, suffering and pain gladly forgotten and given up. There is little mercy shown. No pattern of attack. A random reign of quiet, stealthy deletion.
You fight this battle with all you have. You beat away the monster with medications, puzzles, homemade photo albums and videos. Desperate doctor visits. Anything to keep her with you. To still see the remembering in her eyes. To still feel seen by the woman who gave you life, was your biggest champion. Your fiercest protector. You do all this knowing you will lose.
Then one day, while sitting on the couch with her, you realize that you are completely alone. Yes, she is sat there, right next to you. You can reach out and hold her hand. But when you look at her, she is gone. It occurs to you that you have never felt so alone in your whole life. Now, the remembering is all on you. You’re it now. Daughter, son, caretaker, keeper of the memories.
My mother, though she forgot most things and people in the end, and had a recall of about 30 seconds, never forgot me. I will always be thankful for that one piece of our story. Never once did I come to the house, when she appeared at the top of the stairs, did she not know me. I suppose there was a little bit of mercy after all.
I was with her when she died. I told her everything they will tell you to say. That it’s okay to go. That I knew she was tired and that she shouldn’t hold on anymore to a world that no longer wanted to be remembered. That I was strong enough to go on without her. All lies.
As she passed, I climbed into the hospice bed with her in the hope that she would feel my arms around her as she left this life. That maybe I would feel her go. But I felt nothing but mourning for a life I once knew as a daughter. That I would have to get used to saying the word Mom in the past tense. That I would never again say it as a greeting or a plea for help. That I was forever changed now.
As I was writing this, a mirror fell off onto the floor in my bathroom and when I got up to look I saw a cardinal in my backyard. Was that her? I told the empty room that I still miss and need her. That I’m still not okay 5 years later. I’m still looking for her. Even now. Every day. That I’m 55 and still a little girl in the same moment. I was wrong. Nothing changed.
How do I end this essay except to say it was written for you? If you’re reading this and you understand it, then maybe none of us are really alone. We share the bond of knowing a mother, losing one or being one. We can always see that remembering in each others eyes, if we look for it. We are the caretakers of memories, together.
About the Author
Victoria is married with a 23-year-old son. They just adopted a dog, Gia, from a rescue group last year.
She lives in Long Island, NY, and is currently trying to devote her time to writing, which has always been there, waiting in the background.
