No Elephants In The Room: How My Mom and I Connected Despite Her Dementia
For as long as I can remember, my mom has had a true obsession with elephants. Every place she has ever lived, from our first apartment to her senior housing apartment, has been decorated with the ancient animals. The elephants ranged in size, color, and texture collected from a variety of stores, yard sales, and other places. From the kitchen to the living room, you could find elephants all over my mother’s space. I always wondered what drew her to elephants.
In various African folktales, elephants are often portrayed as wise and noble creatures, embodying virtues such as loyalty, family bonds, and intelligence. Some Native American tribes view the elephant as a symbol of strength, wisdom, and longevity. Elephants are highly regarded in Buddhism, symbolizing mental strength, responsibility, and the ability to overcome obstacles. This is particularly interesting to me because my mom has been slowly losing her memory over the past couple of years due to the debilitating effects of dementia.
Dementia, the universal term that describes a change in brain health, has been a part of my mom’s new normal for the past couple years. She is just one of the 10% of Americans, ages 65 and up, who live with the condition. But, for Mom and me, this is much more than just a numbers game. Watching her take on this challenging and debilitating condition with such bravery and grace has both humbled and inspired me. Every day is a roller coaster of emotion and inquiry. I am constantly asking myself, what does she need? How can I ensure she’s well taken care of?
Life has changed drastically from the way I have always been in relationship with my mother. A series of small strokes on my birthday two years ago was the inciting incident for this current reality. One phone call shifted me from her emergency contact to the caregiver, from her son to her advocate. Nowadays, I watch her like a parent watching their child during a sports game or performance, cheering her on as she struggles to remember the name of a relative, eat her pudding, or find a comfortable sitting position.
As much as Mom has changed, so have I. I’ve pulled up at no less than two dozen gas stations, fast food drive-thru windows, or supermarkets with tear-stained cheeks, wondering about the smallest details of her comfort or if every task that she needs was completed. Every visit is like watching sand in an hourglass move in slow motion; the changes are small and incremental, but they are present and new with each day. Contrary to popular belief, caretaking is not for the soft at all. It’s for survivors, protectors, and the most noble of all human beings.
My mom is now in a care facility to ensure that she’s surveilled around the clock. I have been inspired and supported by all kinds of everyday people, crossing paths with ministers, nurses, physicians, everyday working folks and other family members who care for their relatives. At a facility-wide Christmas party, I held back tears as I watched brave nurses and administrators stop at nothing to ensure every resident had a holiday gift and cup of egg nog. A moment I will certainly never forget.
But every moment hasn’t been a tear-filled one. There have been moments of levity and laughter as well. I started carefully recording many of them on my phone to archive. Mom and I still laugh, we still joke, she still drops an occasional f-bomb, and I still wear her out with my antics. All of this is in an effort to tap into a sense of normalcy even as she moves into this new reality.
I don’t know what the future holds for Mom. But, if we are honest, none of us can be completely sure what the future holds. So, I have had to learn how to release my expectations and tap into courage, wisdom, and strength. This is what Mom would want. This is what she would expect. And so this is what I will honor.
As I care for her, I am learning how to face challenges head-on with fire, humility, grace, and grit. As I care for her, I am recalling life lessons, her direction and coaching, remembering all that she endured for me. It helps me to push when I am absolutely exhausted or stretched to the max.
Things are as different as ever. The walk from my car to my mom’s bedside feels like a million miles, with my mind racing while bracing myself for the day’s status report. It is a long goodbye, an extended run with grief, an agonizing Rubix cube of emotions and feelings. As Mom’s condition progresses, it becomes more and more difficult to keep her comfortable, and the list of challenges and complications seems to multiply.
The list of things that don’t irritate her is extremely short. Loud noise, loud television, and endless conversation are all non-negotiable. She hates those things now. Music, however, happens to be one of the things that she still loves. Aretha Franklin. James Cleveland. The Whispers. The Spinners. These artists are all green lights. Recently, I visited Mom for lunch, and I pulled out my headphones and iPhone. I played “The Whispers” on Apple Music station, and within minutes, she was singing aloud, waving her hands like a conductor, and playing an imaginary piano.
As I watch her, I take in a much-needed sense of relief, a suspension from the reality of caregiving for a few moments. I watch, quietly wondering what’s playing in her imagination. I wonder for a moment if, like an elephant, she is a representation of how the outside is no true depiction of what goes on on the inside. I marvel at how we’re in the same room and yet still worlds away from one another.
In these moments, I’m reminded that even though Mom might be losing her memory that, maybe her memories are still alive. Certainly, our memories are still alive. The songs she loves are the soundtrack for her life. Music and moments etched in memory, just like that elephant, hers and mine, until the end of time.
