My mother is preparing for a wedding, and she requires some cosmetics. I spend at least ten minutes choosing the perfect blush, eyeliner, and just the right shade of lipstick.
I’ve already dragged her to buy high heels, and I feel completely drained. When a loved one has dementia, even the simplest suggestions can ignite frustration. Each recommendation I make feels like a harsh judgment on her ability to care for herself. In the Easy Spirit store, I juggle my 2-year-old who keeps darting toward the open door, while my mother struggles to fit a stiletto on the wrong foot over an athletic sock, insisting the staff has given her the wrong shoe.
I try to catch the attention of the salesman discreetly: “My mother has dementia, so I’ll do the talking. Please address her directly, but listen to me.” It’s certainly a joy to break this down for a busy New York shoe salesman, who likely didn’t sign up for complex family dynamics.
Both my mother and my daughter are on high alert against being talked about rather than spoken to, so I’ve honed the skills of an undercover agent to manage their needs. Unfortunately, I often fail, leading to arguments worthy of Eugene O’Neill. We might vow never to see each other again, with her claiming I’m “making her memory worse” and me insisting she’s driving me crazy.
In just five minutes, she won’t remember the quarrel, and I won’t hold onto my anger. I will simply see my mother—or the woman who shares her history but lacks the sparkle of my true mother’s eyes. We’ll reconcile over lunch, both of them unwilling to accept their limitations yet determined to assert their independence.
Deciding to venture into the cosmetics aisle alone feels like a sacred act. I’m preparing a gift bag for my mother’s boyfriend to take to the wedding. He remembers her from “before”—like me, he clings to those memories even as he tries to embrace her current self. On good days, she remains lively and sharp-witted. Recently, a friend remarked that despite a severe brain bleed five years ago, my mother appears “like her old self.” Without missing a beat, she quipped, “I wouldn’t know.”
I love quaint old pharmacies that offer soap from Rhode Island in charming tin canisters adorned with sailboats. One such company also sells talcum powder—does anyone still use that? I can’t help but linger there, lost in nostalgia.
My mother gifted me my first bottle of perfume when I was 17. We lived in a modest apartment in Los Angeles, where I had my own room filled with only a few cherished items, as she deeply believed in valuing quality over quantity. A dusty pink vase sat in the corner, holding elegant pussy willow. My white desk—a pristine hand-me-down from my sister—faced Gregory Way.
On my birthday, I awoke to find a curved glass bottle bathed in sunlight on my desk. My mother had a keen eye for detail; this was “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder. I reveled in the promise it held, even though I had no boyfriend or parties to attend. I didn’t go to prom, as no one asked me, but I still felt a sense of romance in my life, thanks to the wisdom my mother imparted—lessons passed down from her mother and her own revelations about life and love.
One afternoon, I shared a song by Ella Fitzgerald with my mother, a purchase from Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. I imagined the first time one encounters such beauty must be akin to experiencing Ella’s iconic voice. My mother articulated my feelings perfectly as we sat on the carpet, eyes closed, her head tilting in appreciation. “She’s silk and honey,” she said, and we listened to Ella scatting “Take the ‘A’ Train” for what felt like an eternity before rewinding the tape.
My memories of my mother aren’t hazy; she was precise and intentional. She taught me about tragedy and drama. A world-class figure skater and a Broadway dancer, she was also a talented screenwriter and novelist, yet she often believed my sisters and I were far more gifted. They say daughters absorb their mother’s self-worth rather than her praise, making it essential for mothers to avoid self-deprecation. Nevertheless, she made me feel like a rare and exquisite creation, born from her imagination rather than simply from her womb.
The night before the wedding, my mother called me in a panic. Her boyfriend had informed her of the formal event, and she was distraught. “What am I going to do? My roots need coloring! I have no makeup, no jewelry, no dress, no shoes!” I reassured her that everything was packed—shoes, pantyhose, dress, cosmetics, a patent leather purse, pearls, and high heels. Her boyfriend would deliver them to her in ample time for her to change. I urged her to look in the mirror; her hair had just been cut and colored.
She cried, “Thank you.”
Oh, Mom. Thank you.
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Summary: This narrative delves into the life of a woman caring for her mother with dementia while managing her own responsibilities as a parent. It highlights the emotional complexities of memory, identity, and familial bonds, emphasizing the need for compassion and understanding in challenging situations.