The Window

Years ago, when I was dealing with a family member with mental illness, I remember a medical professional telling me that the "window of opportunity" for being able to reach him was closing rapidly.  It was a metaphor that would stay with me.

Last year my father died and my 89 year-old mother came to live with me.  She was in shock -  confused and grieving (my father's diagnosis and death took place in one short month) .  She was, herself, not in the greatest physical health.  At that time, I thought there might be a way for us to heal what had been a troubled relationship.  I understood all the dimensions of the situation - her enormous needs, my needs, and her cantankerous and negative personality.  Yet, I had hope.  I was her only child and she was my only mother.  One can always hope.

 So the window, I thought, was open a bit and some positive energy might flow through.

Mom and Me just days after Dad died

During the ensuing months, there were light moments, happy moments, and time shared with family.  Then one of the worst winters in my memory set in, and we found ourselves confined and no way for mom to get out.  In hindsight, it was probably the emotional slope she was seeking to slide down. 

By spring, when it was time for us to get out and enjoy the world again, she had slid down the slope more than halfway.  There was no more lunch at T.G.I. Fridays.  There was no  more coming to the dinner table and sharing meals with us.  Her comprehension of where she was and who I was and who anyone was (except Lily, the nurse who is with her everyday) had become erratic.  Sometimes she would call my name, sometimes my dad's and sometimes those of her deceased siblings.

I understand that a shock of monumental proportions, like the death of a partner you'd shared your life with for almost 68 years, can hasten dementia and its associated physical manifestations.

So, the window has almost closed.

Now, almost one year after the death of my father, she is bedridden and doesn't want any visitors.  She refuses all assistance to move, and only accepts assistance to eat.   She can only focus briefly on anyone or anything and signals her disengagement by closing her eyes.  You are dismissed.

I know that she only wants to have her life back the way it was.  She asked Lily to take her home, to which Lily replied, "You are home."  But this has never been her home, in spite of all our efforts to make it comfortable and homey.  Her home was with my father, and when she closes her eyes, she sees him and home.

This makes more frustrated than sad.  I do mourn the loss of any thread of a relationship we might have developed.  Spending a few days with my partner's 90 year-old mother made me understand only too clearly how needy I am for that relationship.  But I'm frustrated that a life ends this way and there seems to be nothing one can do about it, but wait.

We have windows, though, in all our relationships - with our spouses, our children, and our friends.  If we want them to be open with all the good and positive energy flowing back and forth, we must
do due diligence to make sure they're always in good working order.  If I take away anything positive from this experience, it will be that I'll be checking my windows everyday.