So often the people we love are in trouble much earlier than we may realize, and it’s when they are plummeting that our grief actually begins. As they are still alive, just like emotional hostages, we are forced to watch them decline and slowly destroy themselves. We feel impotent, helpless. In our book, we describe watching our children drown while we stand at the edge of the pool, our feet embedded in quicksand. And then, once they died, the experience was vaguely familiar, as though we had been watching it unfold as bystanders. This can happen in many sizes, shapes and circumstances — as we observe our parents aging or experiencing diminished capacity resulting from Alzheimer’s, dementia or cancer. We grieve what once was, what may never be again, and we find ourselves either holding on for dear life, or struggling to let go.
Yesterday, I took my 86-year old mother to the movies, something we have done for as long as I can remember. As the credits were running, while I hoisted her up on the count of three, cane in one hand, other arm clutching mine, I found myself wondering how many more Saturday matinees (lunches, shopping dates, family dinners) this lifetime would allow us to share as mother and daughter. The realization that the number might be smaller than 10 or 20 or 100 suddenly jolted me. A wave of sorrow blanketed the rest of my day. Last weekend, I met a beautiful Greek woman, Nina, the mother of 4 little ones, whose own mother is slowly withering from Alzheimer’s. While she is physically alive, her vivacious spirit, her singing, her stylish attire, have all but disappeared. Nina told me how the family works together to bring love and dignity to the beautiful woman who ‘once was the center of their universe.’ Her riveting account of how her father applies make-up to help her mom feel ‘pretty’ reduced me to tears. Indeed, we grieve while our loved ones are still living, cherishing both the precious moments and memories they so generously gift us. This notion of ‘letting go’ is necessary, I suppose, but let’s face it – nothing could feel more unnatural or counter-intuitive. Perhaps sharing our grief out loud and confiding in friends can remind us we are not walking alone in this journey called life.
Dear Armen, I felt the need to comment on your article re. “Mom and the movies.”. I feel so awkward in writing you; for YOU are the pro and the worldly young lady I remember from many years ago as we attended Holy Trinity Church. I would always turn around to see how CUTE you two were attending church with Mom; as I,too, was doing. What I propose to share with you, Armen, (only from experience) is that you will never be sorry that you missed an appointment, a special luncheon, etc; but instead you spent time with Mom. Idid everything in my power to keep her on this earth as long as possible (hair styled, nails manicured, clothing always best possible) I will never now allow myself to look back to think(“why didn’t I?; I should have) My tears flow now as I tell you she was joyed when I just sat next to her carrying on some crazy conversation. It’s been three year: I do know she is in a better place and that God allowed her to be with me until 99yrs of age. Armen, I am selfish; I still miss her! Please excuse my lengthy “comment”:for, I am not a writer as you are. Only cuz I CARE, Val Badvelian
Dear Val, How I am touched by your words and insights. Thank you for reminding me of just how precious these moments and mother/daughter rituals are – the shared pedicures, Friday lunches at La Boulangerie, Chinese food from the same little dive we’ve enjoyed for decades…these are the times I will someday miss most. Forever engrained in my memory are her sewing room, a freezer filled with gahtah and kuftah, the signature housecoat stuffed with Kleenex in its pockets, and walls covered with her gorgeous handmade quilts. As ‘designated daughter,’ the daughter in charge, the only one here in Fresno, I am (also) the beneficiary of the ‘best ever’ moments – juxtaposed against 9-1-1 calls when she falls or has a mishap. I dread hearing the phone ring. I am selfish, too. I want her to live forever. I understand her fears, her lonely moments, the frustrations of being (as she often reminds me) a young woman trapped in the body of an old woman. Your words remind me tonight to stay in the present tense, embrace, savor and cherish each and every moment. I promise, I will. —Armen