I know I'm slipping

I may have posted this before, and forgive me if it's a repeat, but I was reminded of this once again after finding a letter from Mom as I was cleaning my desk

I have a folder in my desk where I keep birthday cards, special school projects and other mementos. This year as I was putting away my birthday cards, I was thinking about our granddaughter, who is now in kindergarten. She explained in great detail how she had signed her name herself and wanted me to notice the colored hearts she had drawn as well. It is one of those simple memories I hope I can hold in my heart forever.

As I was sliding the folder back into it's cubby, a letter from Mom slid out. It was one she had written on my birthday in 2010. It is hard to believe it was written just four short years ago. It was the last letter I ever received from her.

The letter begins, "I know I am slipping, I try the best I can."

How horrible and frightening it must be to know you are losing your mind -- to realize that things you once took for granted were now becoming more difficult.

Mom's letter included little bits of their daily life. She wrote about how she and Dad had taken a two-month trial membership to the YMCA and they were going every day. She noted she walked 19 laps -- which was a mile -- and how Dad "tried everything," which I took to mean he worked out on all the equipment.

It was a month later, while they were in the car getting ready to the gym, that Dad had a stroke. Mom said they were backing out of the garage when Dad's hands fell from the steering wheel and he told her he really didn't feel much like working out that day. She said he spent the rest of the day napping on the couch. It was later that afternoon that a neighbor found Mom in a panic in the driveway. Dad was unconscious in the bathroom and Mom didn't know how to call 9-1-1. She called my sister at work and left a panicked message on  my son's answering machine. Then she stood in the driveway waiting for help. The neighbor called for an ambulance.

Mom and Dad's life changed considerably after that. We had been concerned with Dad's driving. While Dad would have been content to sit at home and watch Matlock re-runs, Mom needed her daily outing "fix." Dad always obliged. We knew Dad's reflexes were slowing down, but didn't quite know how to take his driver's license away from him. His stroke made the decision much more simple. By law he could not drive. Mom hadn't driven in years.

My sisters and I began chauffeuring them where they needed to go.Shortly after Christmas I took them to the airport and they flew to Florida to spend some time with my older sister and her family.

We all began to notice Mom was not altogether "with it" any longer, but Dad still did a fairly decent job of covering for her. And Dad was slowing down too so it was easy to let ourselves believe it was all part of the aging process. To some extent I suppose it was.

It is also easy  to look back and say, "Yup, we should have noticed this, or we should have noticed that."  But Mom has been hard-of-hearing all her life so it was much simpler to chalk up her confusion to her not being able to hear.

Sometimes, in frustration,  Dad accused her of not trying. And of course it did appear she wasn't trying. But Mom was trying. And she knew she wasn't quite right. And like her hearing loss, she did her best to hide it.

Mom's doctor did what he could. Vitamin B shots, working to keep her thyroid in balance . . . all things that if left unchecked can cause confusion.

But in the end, there is no cure. There is no getting better. All anyone can do is watch a loved one slowly sink into their own little world and try to take comfort in the fact that this would not be their choice, that they are not behaving strangely on purpose and if they could be different they would.