Stained

If my mother were a dog she would have been put down by now. I’m not saying that to be cruel. If you knew her before you would know this isn’t what she would have wanted. Instead, the vessel that used to contain my mother’s soul, is rotting away in a nursing home one town over. She doesn’t recognize me anymore but I still go visit. I want to maintain some semblance of a connection with my only living parent, even if that parent is no longer grounded in reality. 

In the Alzheimer’s caregiver support group there are differing opinions on lying to patients with dementia. One camp believes lying to the afflicted person is wrong, fullstop. In my opinion those people haven’t reached this horrifying stage of the disease yet. A mantra that our group therapist states repeatedly is “Don’t deceive, relieve.” She means that we should be focusing on relieving the stress and anxiety of the patient instead of harping on the accuracy of every statement we make.

I knock on the door to her room and wait as I hear her shuffling footsteps. The door opens a crack and a suspicious eye glares back at me. “Who’s there?”, she growls at me. I can and have answered this question in different ways. The first option is to tell her the truth, that I’m her daughter and I’ve come to visit. This, however, has not been a successful tactic lately. Her failing memory has made her question everything, and at times it’s kinder to offer an alternate account. The second option, which I have had more success with, is to dodge the question entirely. I hold up my peace offering, a big blue tin. “Hi, can I interest you in some cookies?” I’ve brought Royal Dansk, her favorite. She opens the door wider and I can see more of her disheveled state. 

She’s been resistant to letting staff assist her with dressing and other daily tasks. This is common among Alzheimer’s patients entering the more severe stages of dementia. She occasionally has moments of clarity but they have become few and far between. Her behavior has been aggressive, she is often agitated, and highly suspicious of everyone.

Ironically, even though mom and I struggled to coexist my entire life, the staff at the residence tell me she is calmest when in my presence. It feels like I’m in a tragic and more complex version of the movie Groundhog Day with repeated explanations and the retelling of the same stories.

Royal Dansk has never let me down and today is no different. I’m able to coax her to one of the common areas and we sit civilly in two armchairs, the open tin of cookies on the table between us. She is inhaling her third cookie, thankfully she’s not diabetic, when she finally takes a good look at me and assesses my face. I see her take in the details of the dark purple port wine stain that spans from the corner of my downturned left eye to the cupid’s bow of my upper lip. The plum-colored trail that takes up nearly a quarter of my face resembles a cascade of perpetual violet tears. “What did you say your name was?”

I mentally steel myself before proceeding. “My name is Lefty”, I say, looking into her watery sky-blue eyes. It’s the nickname my father gave me that mom always hated. She would remind me that I had the most beautiful name in the world, yet I insisted on using a nickname that made me sound like a caricature in a slapstick comedy bit.

I’ve never liked my given name. Everyone who knows me understands why I do not go by it. A noun that can often be seen during the holiday season in all CAPS, it’s a misnomer and false advertisement of my persona. I adapt, I’ve made lemonade out of lemons on many occasions, but I am not a quintessentially delightful person. The moniker of Lefty was a nod to my left handedness as well as the monstrosity of a birthmark on the left side of my face. My way of dealing with my physical peculiarity is to lead with it. Something I learned as a kid is that a person can only be teased about that which makes them insecure.

“Because of..” she trails off but she’s staring at the purple effusion. No amount of staring bothers me anymore and I smile and nod my head. It was a point of contention between us during my teenage years and into my early twenties that I didn’t attempt to conceal the mark. She wanted me to hide my most defining physical characteristic and I wanted her to go to hell. 

The name doesn’t register with my mom but, like most people when they meet me, she treats me in a gentler manner. Her demeanor shifts and she visibly relaxes. No longer suspicious of me, she is curious. “Do you have any children?” 

“No, I don’t. Do you?”, I ask, earnestly interested about what her answer will be. 

Without hesitation she replies, “Yes, I had a beautiful baby girl.” She smiles and gazes into the distance, and for a minute I think I might have lost her to her own thoughts. The answer surprises me. I can’t remember my mother ever using the word “beautiful” to describe my physical attributes. As she continues to peer into space, at a memory only she can see, a silent tear rolls down her cheek. “What is it?”, I ask softly. Her eyes, now filled with sorrow and despair, meet mine. “She was the most perfect baby in the world. But she died.” 

******

There were warning signs that something wasn’t right with mom but I either ignored them or didn’t want to see them. Dad died two years ago, a slow and painful death from mouth and esophageal cancer that took a physical and mental toll on us all. After the funeral, instead of clinging to each other in our grief, we flung apart like two north poles of a magnet without a south pole, my father, to center us. I still checked in from time to time, but I wasn’t making house calls like I should have. 

Six months after his death, I called to make plans for her birthday the following week. My mom, usually succinct and precise in all communication, struggled to find words and repeatedly asked me the same questions. When I went to pick her up for lunch she had not only forgotten, she insisted I had the wrong date. While in the house, I found objects misplaced and late notices stacked up. I thought she was depressed and overwhelmed with the upkeep of the home and financial responsibilities. Resolving to stay for a week, get things in order, and rekindle a relationship with my mom, I stopped by on a Friday night with a duffel bag and a pizza. I ended up staying for a year and a half. 

******

Mom’s subdued sadness becomes inconsolable so I escort her back to her room. Distracted and agitated, she no longer acknowledges my presence and begins to rummage about in search of something. The place is a wreck made even worse as she rifles through drawers, discarding the contents onto the floor. I watch in fascination as her attention turns to the bed and she pries a book out from under the mattress. It’s the old family Bible, which I was never permitted to touch. Still on a frantic hunt for whatever it is she seeks, she sits on the sofa and flips through the pages.

Up until she was sick, my mother was a devout Catholic, and I would often observe her with the Bible on her lap in my father’s study. Perhaps she still finds solace in reading some of her favorite verses. I settle down next to her and a satisfied murmur tells me that she has found whatever it is she has been looking for. Serenely caressing one of the pages with a finger, a calm comes over her. She lifts the book to her face and lovingly kisses it. 

New and bizarre behaviors are the norm with this disease, but that doesn’t mean I don’t search for an explanation when I can. Taking a peek over her shoulder, I notice a glossy sheen that is uncharacteristic of the Bible’s tissue-paper pages. It’s a photo that has been crammed into the crevice where the page and binding meet. “May I?”, I ask, indicating the book she is tenderly holding. 

It’s an old photo of two babies in a bassinet. They are laying side by side, wearing matching onesies and appear to be twins. At a cursory glance there is nothing unusual about the photo, but then something suddenly catches my eye. Removing the picture from the book, I look closely at what looks like a stain or blot on the image. My breath catches in my chest. The infants, so tiny they must be only a few days old, are looking at each other. Gazing at her sibling, the baby on the right exposes her left cheek to the camera. The angle reveals a sweeping mulberry-colored stain from eye to lips.

“That’s love”, my mother croons. Her words barely penetrate the chaos of my mind. 

I stare, unblinking. My brain whirls as it processes the input. This information, devastating and cruel, crushes me and I know I’ll never be the same again. Finally withdrawing the photo from my face, my quivering hand slowly turns it over. The reverse side reads: Love and Joy, 5 days old

“Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I look up at my mother, observing the pale eyes that do not meet mine. She is reaching for the photo, as if it’s her most priceless possession, and I hand it to her. Replacing the photo in the Bible, she resumes her caressing, as if in a reverie, down the cheek of the baby called Love.

Dazed and disoriented, I get to my feet and take several unsteady steps to the door. I turn, looking back at the woman who was my mother, who gave me life, but kept so much from me. I have always felt different, incomplete, lacking. Now I know why and the validation embitters me. Knowing I’ll never be able to ascertain the truth, I turn back to the door and open it. I exit and close the door on my mother, forever.