Never say never

Never say never again, is a James Bond film. The title is a references to Sean Connery's declaration that he would never again portray the character James Bond in a film. . . . I'm still not certain what more I can say about Mom and her dementia, but quite a number of people have asked me to continue with my blog. I'll start it and see where it leads. But as with all things in life there are no guarantees.

It's been a month now since Mom passed away.

I suppose we all grieve in our own way.

My sisters and I continue to meet for breakfast on Saturday. The first meeting was the day before Mother's Day.We agreed Mother's Day didn't hold any special significance in Mom's passing. We all have families of our own and had started our own Mother's Day traditions. Although we always had included Mom, for the past several years she hadn't known what Mother's Day was.Or Christmas. Or Thanksgiving. Or her birthday.

Our Saturday morning breakfast outings will probably continue for sometime. Much like Mom and her sisters would meet once a month for some type of  "sisters day out," my sisters and I will continue to forge sibling bonds that  had weakened while we raised families, attended soccer games and horse shows, held jobs and worked at being responsible adults. Time now to return to our roots as it were.

I miss my mother. But I've been missing her for years. The woman we visited regularly in the nursing home was not our mother. And we often ask one another, "What would Mom have really wanted?" There is no way of ever knowing. Oh, we know a nursing home was one of Mom's biggest fears. But none of us -- including her -- could have ever imagined she would have become the woman sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a diaper, not knowing who we were.

Mom had started showing signs of dementia long before Dad passed away. We chalked it up to her lack of hearing. I think in the beginning Mom -- in an effort to hide her problem from us -- would let us believe it was a lack of hearing that was causing confusion. But after a trip to Florida one spring Mom and Dad came home and Mom could no longer balance her checkbook. It had been a task that Mom had taken very seriously and their finances were accounted for right down to the last penny. (I, on the other hand, will check my balance with the bank and figure they are more right than I am and call it good).

There were plenty of other signs to which we turned a blind eye. Dad knew. And Dad was scared and concerned.

After returning from Florida Dad insisted they both go in to the doctor for physicals. Mom had had several debilitating panic attacks while in Florida. She had had several at home prior to their trip as well. Dad was adamant we find out what was wrong with Mom. So I told Dad I would take them to the doctor and go into the examination room with Mom, freeing him to talk to the doctor alone.

Dad, being of the generation he is, never told the doctor his concerns. He assumed the doctor would be able to tell what was wrong with Mom simply by looking at her.

A shame? Possibly. But truth be told there is little to nothing that can be done to stop the progression of dementia. It can be slowed, but the ultimate end is you end up in a nursing home in a wheelchair wearing a diaper.

So yes, I miss my mother. I miss her warm smile. I miss her understanding ways. I miss her sarcasm. I miss her hugs. But I've been missing them for years. So when you tell me what I'm feeling is the "normal grieving process," (and please, you have no idea how aggravating that phrase is) I guess you might be right. But it's been a long, long process.