I have never been so uncertain or so fickle. Why am I drawn to write about what is causing me so much pain? It’s like being told in a restaurant, "watch the plate, it’s hot," only to wrap my fingers around it just to be certain. Or like knowing a piece of chocolate is going to start me on a migraine and shoving it in my mouth anyway.
But God help me, I’ve been missing writing about my life as a daughter. I’ve been missing sharing the funny anecdotes and the toe dips into the dark pond of Alzheimer’s. Am I a glutton for punishment? Do I feel I deserve the torture? We Italian Catholics do tend to believe in the sanctity of suffering.
I don’t expect you to join me again on my journey. I’ve been too unreliable, too sporadic. It’s like promising you a cold drink after a long walk only to find the sack is bone dry.
Mom’s short term memory is almost non-existent now. Though Dan or I see her everyday, I am always greeted with a surprised, “Lisa!” like I’m the prodigal daughter, the long lost son. It breaks my heart every time, but the recovery period for me is shorter.
Yet, I still cry everyday. Every single day.
My therapist said I am experiencing anticipatory grief; I am feeling now the “death” of my mother. I am experiencing the same for her sister, my Aunt Connie, whom I’ve written about. Auntie is worse and in a home as well.
I wish this disease would deal a swift blow and not this slow Chinese water torture. I am a “rip the band aid off” type of girl.
But alas, I wish for the unchangeable. And so here I am. Back again.