“The songs we’ve danced, the places we’ve visited”

My father was known for many sayings, some I’ve forgotten, many I’ve remembered.  “All poodles are dogs, but not all dogs are poodles”, for when I would generalise.  But my favourite, one which I’ve loved and lived was, “The only thing we take to our graves are the songs we’ve danced and the places we’ve visited”.  Stated differently, memories are the only thing we take to our graves; so we might as well make them memorable as well as cherished.  

My father passed away last 12th April, at 94 years and months shy of his 70th wedding anniversary.   His love of laughter, jokes (however corny), music, and dance was legendary.   My father’s Joie de Vivre is something I often reflect on whenever I find myself needing encouragement or when/if I’m low.  And as his one year anniversary quickly approaches, however, I am equally saddened by his epic mantra.  

You see, my 92 yo mother has been living and fighting dementia for some time now. While diagnosed some years back, her memory loss was thankfully slow.  But today, however, her dementia has sadly advanced to the point that she no longer recognises me, many of my siblings, or even many of our children.   And while she does thankfully remember joys from her childhood, as a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother, many such family memories are today lost.  

Don’t get me wrong, there are fleeting moments when she does call my name, which clearly makes my heart jump with joy.  But equally, when she calls me Miguelito, a name which baffles my family as to who she is referring to, clearly my heart aches.  

Some of us baby boomers who have ageing parents know what I mean.  We also know that this condition may have stolen our parents memory, but the joy they get from presence lies outside a poets prose.  We sing songs, we show old family photos of them as children, we discuss stories they old us of their childhood when we ourselves were children.  It is in these fleeting moments where we spoon feed the joy from which my father spoke of.  

As any loving child, let alone as parent, clearly our giving joy to our loved ones brings ourselves some joy.  Rather than my mother staring out her window, we were able to briefly engage feeds our own needs for such joy.  No doubt, the same feeling they had when it was them who spoon fed us, when it was them who sang to us, when it was them who read us a book as we lay to sleep.  The circle of life.  

But before I give you the wrong impression, am impression of tender compassion and empathy, I should confess something. I am angry.  I am angry that time has taken away my opportunity to sit down with my mother and converse.  I am angry that I can’t tell her how her grandchildren have grown up to be two loving and family oriented young people.  I am angry that I can’t tell her about my past work, my travels, or my sabbatical.  I am angry that I can’t thank her for those moments when she made me feel as though I was her only child.  I am angry that while I hold her hand she asks me who I am.  

Yes, of course, she feels and appreciates my presence.  But sadly, and admittedly selfishly, I can’t get the satisfaction of seeing her response when I tell her things that would have brought her great joy.  And while I accept this anger is a selfish one, as physically she is present, my own anger stems from this void which her dementia has left me; her youngest child.  What joy I speak of is no longer one I can share with my own mother. Hence my anger, hence my feeling robbed of an opportunity.  

But alas, my tears can’t bring back this maternal connection I crave.  I will have to redirect this to my own siblings and family.  These memories I hold are mine, or as my mother has shown, mine while my own body and mind allow me to rejoice in them.  

So to my mother I leave her this heartfelt message: when I close my eyes, I see you.  When I open them, I cry.