Another step towards the grave

Where do I begin, to tell the story of how great a love can be...

Today I learnt that my mother has slid down another rung (or few) on the Alzheimer’s ladder.

This photo was taken of us just more than 20 years ago. This is the woman I remember. She was fiercely independent, because she had to be. She was so very competent at everything she attempted. When faced with a seemingly insurmountable obstacle, she found a way around it, or through it, or to move it. She loved her gardening, and her pets. She had her vices (wine and cigarettes), but her virtues far outshone those. She was always in my corner, but she took no prisoners when I was in the wrong. She made sacrifice after sacrifice to provide for me. 

I remember one year, when I was going on a school camp in winter, she didn’t have money to buy me a jacket or a suitable jersey, so she knitted me one, even though she HATED knitting. That jersey was one of my favorites until it was  eventually too small for me. When my parents separated, she twisted her boss’ arm to let her work from home so I never had to come home to an empty house. She made my school lunches till I matriculated, always ham sandwiches, because her love language was deeds/ actions.

My step-sister sent this photo to me this past week. She was going through an old album and saw it. I posted it on Facebook, saying that this is how I want to remember my mother, not as who she has become as a result of her disease. My step-father showed it to her over the weekend... and although she remembered that I was her daughter, but couldn’t remember my name.

My head tells me that this was just the next step in her deterioration; not to take it personally. My heart hasn’t processed this yet - that my own mother can’t remember my name. It’ll happen, in time, I know. I hate this disease, that is taking her from me, one horrible step at a time.

Sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare

I don't know about you, but when I dream, I dream in glorious technicolour and surround sound. This morning I was woken up from my dream, and the fear & anxiety I had has stayed with me all day.

In my dream I was a man (first weird thing), working in a bar/ restaurant - think: American style eatery in a small town... you know, the kind where everyone gathers to ride out a storm.

And there was a seriously big storm coming (hurricane?)- everyone from town was pouring into the restaurant - the safety of being together, plus we had a generator in case the power went out. My ex-girlfriend, who I still had feelings for, emailed me a photo to pass on to the guy she was starting to date. I was about to respond that we both missed her (meaning I missed her) when my emails appeared on the big screen in the restaurant, so everyone could see.

Then I was distracted by the in-coming storm. We were frantically trying to board up windows, settle everyone and make sure that everyone had their emergency essentials. Someone crucial (can't remember who) was missing though, so another girl and I went out into the storm to look for this person. We were suddenly standing in the middle of a vast parking lot (as you do, in dreams) (and suddenly I was a woman again (weird, I know) in the pouring rain, yelling at each other over the wind.

I just remember the dark, the rain and the howling wind. I remember my fear of the storm, of not finding this person, of dying in the storm, and my anxiety about not having told my ex that I still loved her. And then the front door of my house closed and woke me up.

All day I've felt on edge, waiting for some imminent, life-threatening danger to strike. My fuse has been exceptionally short and my anxiety levels are high - I can feel it sitting in my chest, like an asthma attack or heart arrhythmia about to happen.

I thought putting it down on paper, acknowledging these feelings out loud, would help, but it's actually just made them worse. My prayers feel like gasps, and knowing Jesus is with me isn't helping. There's no rational reason to feel this way, yet I do. If it were evening, I'd have a big glass of wine and hide away under my duvet with chocolate and Netflix, but it's still mid-afternoon. Plus, hiding never solved anything. Is this what it feels like to have a panic attack?