Baselines

A friend joked with her forgetful mother on Facebook. She said, “how will we know it’s Alzheimer’s, Mom, if this is the baseline? LOL!” Good-natured family banter ensued.

I thought about my own mother, and her diagnosis of Lewy Body Dementia. Mom’s diagnosis was an aha! moment. A lot of things made sense in retrospect. Now I know why she was so extraordinarily hostile and disoriented after surgeries. Now I understand why she insists she hears neighbors talking about her, and says such hateful things about them.

But what about the behaviors that have always been? Rick and I shake our heads over this sometimes. How could we know it’s dementia, if this is the baseline? Our mother has always been kind of dopey when it comes to anything managerial. She’s always been self-centered and lazy. She’s never been great with the truth. She’s oddly dismissive of Rick to this day — he doesn’t even take it personally anymore. She’s always said mean things about neighbors, and been critical of our friends to the point of embarrassing rudeness. (These days I just tell people ahead of time to be prepared. When it happens, they sort of blink in astonishment, then remember I’d warned them, and don’t experience it as a direct hit. Later I say, “told ya.”)

Maybe — especially if you can’t imagine saying such things about your own mother, or if your mother has passed on and you’d give anything for more time together — you’re thinking I’m being too hard on her. Maybe you’ve met Mom and think she’s a lovely person, which she can certainly be. There are people she doesn’t cut down behind their backs. I might even be one of them. (When people say to her “you’re lucky to have such a great daughter so close by,” she says “It’s not luck. It’s management.”)

I try not to be hard on my mother for the hollow satisfaction of it, but I don’t feel inclined to make excuses for her, either. She’s got that part covered. A very indulgent therapist in the 1980s encouraged her to “set aside feelings of inadequacy and guilt.” At the time, I would have preferred she focus on being less inadequate and guilty, but what did I know. I was a child, and some of her inadequacy and guilt affected me in ways I am just beginning to understand, as a mother of daughters myself.

My daughters’ childhoods are several orders of magnitude happier than mine was. Maybe mine was several orders of magnitude happier than my mother’s, and maybe with more insight, I’d achieve a gentler mindset. As truth-challenged as she is, there’s no point in asking for it. I piece together clues as they come.

Sometimes, when the clues make me realize, deduce or remember things about my childhood, I am furious anew. I am nowhere near being able to write about what these things are. But what do people do, with anger at their mothers? When they realize, as parents themselves, how much power there is in that role? When they look back on parts of their childhoods and think, how could you. How could you?

Probably, they see therapists.

I am always heartened to see women hanging out with their moms, each enjoying the other’s company. It shows that it’s possible. It means everything to me that my daughters and I should have that when they are grown women as well. I tell them I’m not perfect and try to own and improve on my shortcomings (except for swearing. I can’t seem to clear that particular hurdle). I include in our “prayers” every night a request to the Universe for help being a good mother to them, because they deserve the best mother I can be. They deserve it.

Only my mother knows whether she was the best mother she could be. I seem to have turned out all right, even if sometimes I feel broken (and I don’t imagine many people get through this life without feeling that way sometimes). I don’t hate her for her limitations, but I don’t have to respect her for how she’s addressed them, either.

And now, it’s hard to know where her personality leaves off and Lewy Body Dementia begins, which is both funny and sad.

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