Jennifer of Midwest “Mom”ents is kind and always very supportive. She has a darling blog about her life and two adorable daughters and keeps late Twitter hours, which is where we connect the most.
I am grateful to have (Not Just Another) Jennifer here today with a sad, yet very loving letter to her mother.
Dear Mom,
How do you express thanks for an entire childhood in one letter? So much to say, I don’t know where to start. I know I was always a bit of a daddy’s girl. I always thought it was because he and I were more alike. But now that I’m older, I realize I’m exactly like you. That’s probably why it sometimes felt like magnetic poles pushing us apart when I was young, especially a teenager. But no matter how sassy or unappreciative of you I was, you always gave more with a smile. I don’t know how you did it. I know some of it is the innate maternal reaction of a mother. I love our girls, too, and that definitely plays a part in being able to tolerate a lot. But I certainly don’t have a servant’s heart like you do.
Now that I’ve been doing this SAHM gig while I’m unemployed, I gradually find myself doing more and more of the same things you did. I can’t sleep at night. I’ve always been a night owl like you, but I mean, I find myself awake until 1 or 2am most nights. Which is crazy since the girls are up at 6:30am. And there’s no reason why I should be sleep deprived except my own inexplicable need to stay up reading a book, doing dishes, watching a show, doing laundry, playing Angry Birds, putting together a craft project I found on Pinterest, etc. Unfortunately, the tired version of me is much less patient with the girls than you were with us.
I know there were times sis and I got in trouble and were sent to our rooms or heard, “Just wait til your father gets home!” But I really don’t remember you yelling at us or punishing us. I think of you working in the garden, sewing dance costumes, wearing yellow rubber gloves to clean, baking with us, teaching us how to crochet, playing games with us, working out to Richard Simmons, cooking awesome spaghetti, teaching us how to make the bed properly. I remember you consoling me after nightmares and kissing my boo-boos better and cheering me on at softball games.
And I remember you as an incredible wife. You always made sure that after we gave Dad our big welcome home hugs and kisses that we left him alone to “watch the news” for 30 minutes, AKA, take a nap. You were making dinner, and I’m sure we drove you nuts, but you knew he needed time to decompress, and you willingly gave him that space. You never fought with him in front of us. We could tell when you were mad, but you just said his name in a terse way, then pursed your lips, and bit your tongue. We knew you would be discussing things later, though. And now that I’m older and know more of the history of your relationship, I’m in awe of your devotion to being a good wife.
So when you started having memory trouble a few years ago, I felt like I should be there for you the way you have always been there for me. But I had a newborn, a husband, and a full-time job. I didn’t visit you as often as I should have to play games or cards or Memory with you. And I was a little bit in denial, to be honest. Now that you have been diagnosed with short-term memory difficulty and dementia, I can see how you had been faking it for much longer than we knew about it.
The part that’s the most difficult for me to grasp is the paranoia that’s begun this past year. The night you left me a message at 2am saying Dad was having you committed and if you disappeared that you wanted someone to know what had happened was the last time I went to bed without my phone on the nightstand. Then you decided that the neighbors who live in the house behind you wanted to break in the sliding glass door from the patio to your bedroom to attack you. That was about six months ago. You’ve been sleeping on the couch in the living room ever since. And a couple of weeks ago, you told me that Dad stole $400 from you.
I can’t imagine how horrifying it must be for you to feel that your husband is plotting against you and feeling trapped and isolated. I love you so much, and it’s heart wrenching to see you go through this and be unable to do anything to help. You are the kindest, most generous person I know, and you do not deserve to spend the golden years of your life in this kind of hell.
Here’s to you, Mom, the one I admire and strive to emulate and if I’m being perfectly honest, am terrified of one day becoming.
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Tonya, thanks so much for having me here. It was really cathartic to write that. I haven’t even said much about it on my blog. Sometimes it’s easier to just send a letter, you know? Perfect opportunity. Hugs!
Such a beautiful letter, Jennifer. I’m so sorry your mother is going through this right now.
Thanks, Alison. We spent all our lives worrying about my dad’s health. So unprepared for this with Mom.
This was a beautiful letter to you mother. I am so sorry she is going through this now. I’m sure it’s so hard.
Thanks, Kimberly. It’s a struggle, that’s for sure.
I’m so sorry that you are going through this with your Mom. The loss of memory, and increase of dementia is terrifying to families who don’t know exactly what to do. My thoughts are with you. Beautiful letter.
Exactly. We weren’t prepared for this, so we just aren’t sure how to handle it. Thanks for your support.
Oh this hurt my heart to read. This has to be so hard for you Jen and for your whole family. Sending you lots of hugs as you deal with the difficult years ahead with your mom.
Thanks so much, Jess. Yes, the worst is knowing that it won’t improve, but continue to decline for an unknown length of time.
This must be so difficult to go through with your mom. Hugs to you and your family.
Thanks so much for the encouragement.
Oh, the pain I would feel to watch my momma go through these things. I hear people say “don’t know what’s worse, losing your mind or your physical health.” Tell you what, I know the worst. I hope you know your mom is inside of this woman, and she would want you to remember her from better times. Still – can’t be easy.
Thanks so much for the encouragement. That is my hope, that our 4 year old will remember the good times now ( she hides it pretty well from the girls at this point – they just think she’s forgetful). Thankfully I have lots of great memories to pull from.
My grandmother suffered from this sort of dementia paranoia too and it was just heartbreaking. She lived in a duplex and would get up in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep and then the next day, was convinced that her neighbors were digging through her things and out to rob and kill her, even when she had been the one digging in the jewlery box. It was so hard to figure out when to go along with her story so she wouldn’t feel crazy or try to comfort her by telling her she was imaging things.
My hurt hearts for you.
Beautifully written piece.
Yes, it would be so much easier if most of her fears weren’t about my dad. I feel like we have to pick sides in her perception.
Ohmyheart, what a beautifully loving letter.
I’m so, so very sorry Jennifer.
(I love that you have so many memories of and with her to wrap around how she’s doing now.)
Thanks, Galit. YEs, I’m very thankful that I have those to buffer the new experiences.
Oh, Jennifer, I’m so sorry to hear of your mom’s struggles. What a beautifully touching letter you wrote to her.
Thank you so much. I really appreciate your kind words.
Oh my friend, what a gorgeous letter to your mom and I hope writing it has offered you some comfort and healing. I remmber when my grandmother started to lose her memory and how it just snowballed over the years she had left with us, it was hard, sad and emotional for me. My greatest fear is that my mom will start to lose her memory too and so I pray everyday that she “stays with me”.
What a brave and honest letter to write. Sending you and your mom my love.