text: we remember moments | Meredith Winn
  i quite literally spent my childhood daydreaming in the newark airport. she always cried at hello's and goodbye's.
  after ten days together, through distance and space and silence and worry, she holds up two fingers like a gesture of peace. "two months" she says with her smile turned downward holding back the tears that come anyway. tears are stronger than the muscles that try to fight them.
  two months seem impossibly far away. and eternally long. sadly, i will find myself wishing this time away. and sadly i am not knowing who she might be when i see her again in two months.
  the tension in the house is thicker than cigar smoke. the first day or so we laugh and joke and try to pretend that the sky is not falling. on day three all hell breaks loose in a food fight between father and daughter with unblinking witnesses. just like old times. we can laugh about it now, he says he'll bronze that crab cake i threw at him. he threw it back.
  full of emotion. undeniably full of fear.
  this relationship is growing between us. a sprout of life where there used to be nothing. as she slips further into her own world, my dad and i bloom. it is the epitomy of bittersweet. this path is most definitely not something i would have chosen. i never expected to lose her first.
  "i'm scared of the diagnosis. we'll get the diagnosis and then you'll leave." he says hunched over before bedtime, a near whisper. "i know" i say, "i'm scared too."
  his words hang in the air over my head.
  i don't want to say goodbye but i have to.
  we sit three across in the waiting room with the bigscreen tv blasting laugh tracks from some loud morning show. i hear her name and say "that's you" as we are ushered down the hallway to a small office with only two chairs. my dad leans against the back table in silence. i am glad i cannot see his face.
  after polite introductions she throws the first punch in her quiet voice, it all seems nonchalant as she goes over the results of the latest EEG. i don't know how to be, or where to put my hands when she says directly "this looks like dementia and it's rapidly progressing…"
  i have a list of questions that become blurred in my hands each time i look down, i don't even know what to say, but i ask them anyway although none of it matters. we all know where this is heading.
  my mom is unphased by the prognosis. completely emotionless. it's jarring. the doctor looks from her to me back to her asking "are you worried? do you understand what we are saying?"
  "no, i'm not worried. i'm just in my own little world."
  she looks to me again and i try to smile and explain how we are just very much in the moment right now.
  every day. in the moment.
  until that is all there is.
  until she is no longer.
  this world is a fucked up mess of emotion played out in a public forum. how to be civil, courteous, say thank you and merry christmas when you've just been given the truth of the matter: that your mother is quickly forgetting herself. and she soon will forget you, her baby, and everyone around her.
  we are on the rollercoaster, no longer teetering on the brink of drop, but we are in mid-air now speeding faster and faster to the end that we all know results in heavy loss. it's approaching faster than i imagined. and the only thing i know for sure is that i'm not ready to be without her.
  ← onward with love
  16 thoughts on "we remember moments"
  thordora on January 3, 2010 at 11:41 am said:
  I am so sorry. I hope you're granted many many moments before. Knowing she's leaving you, like a ship to space…that's so heartbreaking. I wish I had better words.
  alicia on January 3, 2010 at 12:02 pm said:
  i am so sorry for the heartbreaking news and the heartbreaking moments that lie ahead of you and your family. to be able to find more moments to make more memories in these hard times is important.
  laura frantz on January 3, 2010 at 12:19 pm said:
  My God. I am so sorry.
  Erin Wilson on January 3, 2010 at 12:37 pm said:
  Very sorry for each daily loss…
  Grateful that you have the kind of heart that can see moments.
  NTE on January 3, 2010 at 12:38 pm said:
  I'm a "velcro child" too, so I can not imagine how difficult this must be for you. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. And that I will be here to listen when things are too much.
  Sarah B. on January 3, 2010 at 12:45 pm said:
  jeroldssis on January 3, 2010 at 12:58 pm said:
  I am so sorry..for you, for your dad, for everyone who is being effected. Many prayers will be said for you and yours today. Please, keep us updated if you feel up to it. Someone, somehwere will benefit from your words when they find out something like this is happening to them, too. Cherish the moments, my friend.
  deb on January 3, 2010 at 1:54 pm said:
  I came across a book last year called "Still Alice" about a woman with early onset Alzheimers. Because I was caring for dementia patients at the time, it caught my eye. Not a well written book but a good read. It must be scary for your mom sometimes, to get lost inside her head, wandering down musty old corridors, looking for a way out. Scary for you and your dad as well, watching someone you love slowly disappear. She's still there though.
  flutter on January 3, 2010 at 3:34 pm said:
  Julie Alvarez on January 3, 2010 at 3:42 pm said:
  I can't imagine what your feelings are right now. I can only say that I hope you can always remember the most wonderful moments with her, and go through this phase as peaceful as possible.
  Much love, and strength to you.
  (I remembered a movie that I saw once, about a woman in the same situation as your mom, and her loving loving husband that kept with her at all times, showing his love for her, no matter how hard it was. I loved the feeling of it. And I know that your mom, no matter what happens to her in the day to day, will always have the feeling of love inside her.)
  elizabeth on January 3, 2010 at 7:49 pm said:
  Oh no. I'm so sorry. The words with which you've told us this terrible news are so beautiful and painful and honest. Your steadfast love will sustain you.
  kristin on January 3, 2010 at 10:21 pm said:
  oh my mere.
  no words will make any of this hurt less. just know you are one of the strongest women i have ever come to know.
  Chris on January 4, 2010 at 12:55 pm said:
  Thank God for the gift of these moments. Even in the pain you will find love the depth of which cannot be expressed…at least not by me. Going through 19 months of watching my mother leave this earth and being there to hold her as she took her last breath and looked in my eyes with that never ending Mother's love, while the deepest pain I have ever felt was also God's greatest gift. We got goodbye and we got more love than so many ever know. I know that you too will grow and find so much more of yourself than you ever knew existed in the experience…its who you are. Even in death our parents teach us so much…their gifts are endless.
  tea_austen on January 4, 2010 at 3:11 pm said:
  This is beautiful, and heartbreaking, and honest, and true. Thank you for sharing. Though it can't change facts, writing them helps I find. Wishing you strength as you navigate the changing territory.
  Loss only exists where love has been.
  Michaela Dawn on January 5, 2010 at 2:54 am said:
  Nothing else be said…
  betsy on January 6, 2010 at 10:30 pm said:
  Oh Meredith, I'm so sorry. I come from a family of lost memories. Which has made me all the more determined to trust that it is the hearts that matter most. You are in hers. And she is in yours. For always. Sending peace and hope your way…xo