To Love a Stranger
桑德·史密斯 / Sande Smith
A parent since she was fifteen, my seventy-six-year-old mother used to long for the day when she could just sit and do nothing. No more taking care of the children. No more worrying about whether there was enough money to pay the bills. No more responsibilities.
She got her wish. Every day now, she sits in a nursing home, tapping her fingers on her chair in a syncopated rhythm that reminds me of bebop, talking to herself about her father, who died when she was eight.
“Mildred... Mildred. ” I say.
She looks up at me, her eyes brighten, and her smile reveals snaggles like those of a five-year-old. “Come here, baby doll, ”she says.
I rush over to her, pull close a chair, and sit down.
“Hey, Mildred, how are you?” I don’t call her Mommy anymore. She doesn’t answer to Mommy.
My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1984, right after I graduated from college. While in school, I saw signs that something was wrong. Often, when I would call home, she would be upset because she’d lost her money. “Mommy never loses her money.” I’d think.
I fought the disease. Through changes in doctors, diet, and medicine, and through the addition of Chinese herbs, my mother’s health improved. She lost seventy-five pounds and regained her ability to converse with other people. Yet, despite profound physical improvement, the Alzheimer’s continued to unravel her mind over the next six years.
I lived with my mother from 1984 to 1990, as the illness slowly took its toll. It was appalling to watch her change right in front of me. She didn’t just forget things. She became a different person—one whom I did not recognize. When my boyfriend would watch television, she’d walk in circles around his chair, muttering under her breath and scowling. She kept a hammer hidden in her room and wielded it at the slightest provocation. If she got out of the house, she’d refuse to come back in. Instead, she would run down the street, calling for the police to help her. She’d come to believe that she was a police officer—a conviction touched off by a letter inviting her to take the civil service test. Only another police officer could convince her to come into the house.
This is not my mother, I would tell myself. My mother had no interest in men;this person called men over to her window. My mother never cried, yet this woman broke into tears at the slightest thing. My mother always appeared polite and good-natured. This woman was quick-tempered and slightly paranoid. She moved magazines, silverware, dishes, and clothing around the house. When I asked about the objects, she’d become angry and yell at me for thinking she had done something wrong. She told me that other people, not she, had moved these things.
“Come here,” she’d say forcefully, grabbing my hand and pulling me into her room. “Listen. Do you hear them? They took it.”
To learn more about the disease, my sister and I attended groups for families of Alzheimer’s patients. We learned not to blame my mother for things she said or did. The Alzheimer’s was talking, not her.
As the disease progressed, my mother grew frightened. She’d say, “What’s happening to me? Why can’t I remember?”
Before Alzheimer’s, my mother never admitted fear or sadness to me. Now, she became strangely free with her emotions, crying when frightened, expressing anger when furious, and laughing when exhilarated. As I released my perceptions of who my mother was supposed to be, we both became calmer.
I used everything I could to stay connected to her as she lost the ability to engage in the hallmarks of linear life. My mother had always loved dancing. When I came home from work, I’d turn on Tina Turner or Janet Jackson, and we would dance and dance. I’d play her favorite songs on the piano, and she’d place her hand on top of the old upright and sing each note and every word perfectly.
