It begins anew. The relentless cycle—a heart-wrenching loop that takes your breath away.
Stage One: Denial
“Have you spoken to Mom?” The dreaded question from one of my brothers always stirs feelings of dread within me.
“Yes,” I reply, closing my eyes before asking, “Why?”
“She just seems… off,” he sighs.
“No, I haven’t noticed,” I lie, dismissing the truth.
After we end the call, I attempt to push the troubling thought aside. I immerse myself in the daily routines—playing with my children, helping them with homework, and preparing a dinner that ends up being a lackluster affair. As I sit at the kitchen table, shoveling food into my mouth, I try to ignore the reality of her condition. I smile at my son as he excitedly shares a story about his Lego Star Wars character and nod along, feigning interest. I wipe my daughter’s mouth and ask her to use her fork while she hums a tune from preschool. Together, we eat, and I pretend that everything is fine. Again.
It’s not happening again.
It’s not happening again.
And so the cycle continues until she reaches the next phase… everyone’s favorite.
Stage Two: The Illusion of Normalcy
My phone rings, and “Mom” appears on the screen. I fight the urge to decline the call, but I can’t. I long to hear her voice, to grasp onto a fleeting sense of normalcy.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, holding my breath.
“You’re coming to see me for Spring Break, right?” she says, her words spilling out faster than usual.
“Um, I haven’t thought about it,” I reply cautiously.
“I’m cleaning out my closet,” she interrupts. “Do you want that brown suit we bought together? You could use it for work.”
“No, Mom. I don’t work anymore.” I haven’t worked in seven years.
She pauses, trying to process my words before moving on. “I feel amazing! Did I tell you? I’m back! I’ve never felt this good! I stayed up until 6:00 this morning organizing.”
I visualize our once-immaculate home, now cluttered and chaotic. I can picture clothes strewn across her bed and dishes piled high in the sink. Her beloved teapot collection has become a disarray of mismatched pieces scattered throughout the house. I can almost hear my father trying to manage the mess while keeping his own sanity intact.
“I’m glad you’re feeling good,” I lie, knowing the truth. She’s not well, but in this moment, her brain is firing on all cylinders, creating a facade that she embraces. To the outside world, she seems vibrant, but to me, she’s a fragile being on the verge of shattering. I brace myself for the inevitable decline.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, choking back the emotion.
“I love you too,” she responds.
“I know,” I whisper, fully aware of what lies ahead.
Stage Three: Anger
Her name lights up my phone for the eighth time today. I hesitate, knowing the confrontation that awaits.
“Hi, Mom,” I say cautiously.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” she snaps back.
“I don’t have a problem,” I reply, feeling the tension rise.
“You and your dad are terrible! Do you think I’m a child?” This is coming from a woman who never used profanity, now unfiltered in her anger.
She has overheard a discussion between my dad and me about her care. Her emotional abuse has reached a point where my father is at his breaking point. She expresses disdain for him, for everything about him, and I fear for his well-being. I know she wouldn’t physically harm him, but her words cut deep, leading me to check in with him every morning.
“This illness is tearing our family apart,” I think, feeling helpless.
“No, Mom. We don’t think you’re a child,” I respond, though our actions often suggest otherwise. We tiptoe around her, making plans without her consent, all while avoiding her fragile state.
“Mom, please stop being angry with me,” I plead.
“You know what? Your husband should leave you. Your kids deserve better than you,” she spits out, and I nod, agreeing to shorten the conversation. I’ve heard this all too many times today.
I made the difficult choice to admit her to the hospital during one of her difficult episodes, which she now refers to as “the loony bin.” I hate myself for that decision, but the alternative was daunting. My brothers were reluctant to act, and her unpredictable behavior posed a danger to my elderly father.
She doesn’t understand why I won’t visit her or allow my children to see her in this state. She wants them to remember the vibrant woman who always had candy in her pockets and cherished the laughter of her grandchildren.
“I’m sorry you’re mad at me, Mom,” I say softly.
“Sure you are. You don’t care about me,” she retorts before abruptly hanging up. I drop my phone and weep. Her illness is an enigma that no one can explain.
She’ll call again—twenty more times, and I will answer each time, enduring the verbal assaults because she is my mother, and I know she doesn’t mean it.
I know she doesn’t mean it.
Stage Four: The Dreaded Absence
Days pass without a call from “Mom.” On her birthday, I reached out, exchanging a simple “happy birthday” before telling her I loved her, to which she replied in kind. But today is my birthday, and this should be our moment.
Normally, she recounts the story of my birth, her voice animated as she recalls the chaos of labor and the joy of welcoming me into the world. She tells me how special it was to have a daughter after four sons. Our birthdays are a bond, a cherished tradition.
But not this year. Not last year. Because she forgot.
It’s the disease—an illness that steals memories and connections. Yet the pain isn’t lessened. I’m still checking my phone, hoping for a miracle, reminding myself that it’s okay. It’s okay.
Maybe she’ll return. Maybe she’ll reclaim that vibrant spirit.
Until then, I rummage through my card box, seeking a note—a piece of her that I can hold onto. I find a small treasure: a note from her, written long ago when I first moved away. It reads, “Here’s your mail, Sweetie. Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom.”
I miss you too, Mom. So much.