Lessons of Alzheimer's
I went to see my mother in memory care this week.
She’s not well.
The nurse was feeding her and upon seeing me, he quickly turned the task over to me — as if I wanted to spoon feed my mother.
I took his seat. “Hi, mom,” I said in my best sing-songy voice, reserved for children and her.
She did not look at me.
She was intent on picking up bits of food that had fallen from her towel-bib and moving them to her tray.
Her nose dripped. After a lifetime of tissues tucked up her sleeves, she let it flow, oblivious.
I spooned up a bit of shredded beef and carrots, grateful for my mask which hid my gagging both from the smell and the sight of mingling of institutional food and mucus. She opened her mouth like a little bird, sometimes taking the spoon from me to feed herself. This is a good day, I thought. She is bringing food to her own mouth, at least 1 in 3 times. I got my gagging under control and used her bib to wipe her nose.
The immensity of this moment, feeding the woman who gave me life, threatened to swallow me like a tsunami. So I tucked it away, like another of bird, adding to the nest that would sustain her for another little while and keep the flood of emotion at bay. Hits from the 60s were playing on the still YV screen and I sang to them under my mask while I fed her. I drew sustenance from the nursing assistants who laughed, talking with each other and the residents. I soak up the love they of family they bring from Kenya to our mothers, that encircles me as I feed my mom.
I try to visit every week, but I must confess, there are many weeks I don’t get there. I have lots of reasons. But when I am not there, I am still carrying her. She is always with me. This is weight, too. I am built for this. Or so I tell myself. I tend to look at the cup as half full, so I focus on the gratitude: I am grateful that I am able to do this, that I am strong of body, mind and spirit to manage their finances and mine; that I am able to visit her, to keep space for her, to love her in this completely unconditional way.
Gratitude empowers me.
During a recent Zoom call with my business coach, he asked me how I was doing. I looked around for the truth, as though it was in my office somewhere. “Good,” I answered too quickly. I felt myself so full, I was about to spill over. Then, thanks to the camera view of myself, I saw myself make a gesture that said more than words ever could. I move both of my hands up to my shoulders, lightly landing my fingers there like little birds. “I…am…I am carrying...A lot.”
Before I knew it, emotions welled up. It was as though the gesture, followed by the words, un-dammed an emotional pathway, and up the tears flowed. Carrying people is hard work. They are heavy. I have my mother on one shoulder and I have another family member on the other. I have my Dad who passed, cheering me on. I can hear him saying something else, too:
“Take care of yourself, Susan, or you won’t be good for anyone else.”
Dad was good at taking care of himself. He was kind of self-indulgent, really, and a little cheap. He loved good food and coffee. He didn’t hesitate to devour delicious bakery-baked baguette from The Bread Garden in Berkeley. He and I would go at that bread, each taking an end, still warm from the oven, smearing it with butter, until it was gone. My brother and Mom barely had a chance at it.
Food is one way to fill your cup. Maybe that’s what Dad and I were doing as we sat with my quietly mentally-ill mother. People fill their cups with alcohol, drugs and sex, too. While it is a truism that you can’t pour from an empty cup, you can’t fill it if it is already full — and full of the wrong stuff.
When I saw my hands float up to my shoulders in a gesture that said more than a thousand words, I quickly realized that my cup was spilling over with the wrong things: taking care of others who can’t take care of themselves. By listening to the wisdom of my body and verbalizing this burden to a non-judgmental, wise and authentic coach — and shedding tears that were overdue — I emptied my cup. This is the cup that food, alcohol and sex cannot fill. This is the cup that’s about fulfillment. This is the cup that demands we set boundaries. This is the cup that when full, we feel centered, calm, happy, light, energized. We feel at peace.
Peace is a self-fulfilling energy that enables us to go back into the trenches of our lives, to be of service, day after day. It is the well of compassion and unconditional love. When I return to my mother to feed her like a bird, I will be doing so from a cup full of self-compassion. And yes, gratitude.