Earlier today, my mother and I shared a rather amusing moment in the bathroom while attempting to collect her urine sample. It’s a tricky task: crouching, aiming, and guessing where the stream will land. Combine that with a daughter trying to direct her mother’s flow and a line of impatient patients waiting outside, and you have the makings of a comedy sketch reminiscent of the greats. At times, we feel like a comedic duo, bickering in front of bewildered strangers in harshly lit hospital corridors. We’ve become the comedy team of post-stroke dementia, finding humor in the chaos.
Did the legendary comedy duo ever face the weight of profound loss in their routines? Probably not; such themes can kill the laughter. Yet somehow, amidst the absurdity fostered by dementia and the frustrations of a child turned caregiver, there are moments of genuine hilarity.
As we sat in the frigid air waiting for the bus outside the hospital—just one stop away—I felt a peculiar stillness. The years of hospital visits and the aftermath of her brain injury seemed, for a fleeting moment, to have faded. Today was different; we were getting along unusually well. It felt as if a curtain was about to rise on a new act of our relationship.
Only ten minutes before, we had left the doctor’s office, where we discussed her latest medical choices and my decision to proceed with urgent surgery on a new ailment. I gazed at a grim brick wall across from the bus stop, a dilapidated housing project that sparked a bitter laugh within me.
“What? What is it?” my mother inquired. Since she struggles to remember our conversations, I often hesitate to share my thoughts, knowing it’s a futile effort.
I looked at her, who at 75 still surprises doctors with her youthful vigor. She was once a dancer and figure skater. In the past two months, she’s endured abdominal surgery, a blood transfusion, and a thyroid that sends her body into wild fluctuations of chills and panic. It’s been years since her life changed dramatically following a hemorrhagic stroke that left two-thirds of her brain affected. The ICU doctor had told me she may never wake up, yet just days later, she surprised everyone by engaging with her medical team. Despite the challenges, her spirit remained undaunted.
Physically, she appears untouched by the trauma. Her vibrant brown eyes, red lips, and lovely bobbed hair still give her the allure of a dancer, even in her bell-bottom jazz pants. You wouldn’t guess she struggles to recall her own birthday or the names of her grandchildren.
With a sigh, I said, “I have a confession, Mom.” My mother has always loved winter, perhaps as a rebellion against the norm. After years in sunny Los Angeles, where my sister and I grew up without real winters, she relished the cold. Now, however, I sensed a change.
“I’m really looking forward to spring,” I admitted. “This year, I’m done with winter. I want sunshine, light, and flowers.” I paused, almost ashamed of my longing.
“Me too,” she replied with surprising agreement. “That’s happened to me, too.”
My heart sank. If her steadfast love of winter had shifted, what was left of the woman I knew? Was she still herself? How do you even define a person’s essence?
As we sat together, gazing at the brick wall, I reconsidered. Perhaps my mother and I were, in fact, on the same journey, looking toward a shared future. Many have said that mutual understanding defines a healthy relationship. Our bond, fraught with challenges and sorrow over the years, felt rejuvenated in that moment. We both looked forward to spring, together.
If the essence of comedy is conflict, I would gladly exchange every laugh for this newfound agreement. You won’t find a comedy sketch about two people enjoying a moment of harmony at a bus stop; that’s just plain boring. But in this instance, our connection felt like a rebirth. Even if my mother wouldn’t remember it, I cherished the understanding we once shared before her stroke.
Was I conversing with a ghost of the past or witnessing a return? Today, she expressed a new desire, a break from her long-held convictions. What better definition of “alive” could there be?
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Summary
The author reflects on her evolving relationship with her mother, who has suffered a brain injury. Through moments of humor and shared understanding, they navigate the complexities of their bond, revealing that even amidst challenges, there can be a renewal of connection and hope for the future.