My mother stood at the edge of dementia, a wide and terrifying river. She turned around, glancing back at me with her blue eyes sparkling, her arms outstretched. And then she waded in. I could not reach her in time to keep her safely on shore.
In the early stages, there were days of clarity when Maman would lift her face to the sun, wave in recognition to those of us she’d left on shore, beckoning us to join her. But it was not long before swift currents ensnared her, taking her farther and farther away. Her emotions and memories swirled menacingly as time and place no longer anchored her. She would cry out, “What is happening to me?”
Occasionally, tranquil waters would ease her journey. Then, we’d play with Rosco, a stuffed dog that barked, or with a wooden toddler’s puzzle with a fuzzy lamb that went “baaaa” when you took it off the board. She would squeal in delight again and again, as if each time were the first she’d ever heard the animal sounds. We’d look at pictures and talk about the past. “That’s me,” she would say proudly, while pointing to a photo of my sister. “That’s when I took ballet lessons.”
But storms always returned to once again suck her under the dark waters. I would think, “She’ll never surface.” But she would, sputtering with terror and rage. She would scream, consumed by thoughts that brought unimaginable pain. Memories from deep within that had long been harbored. Dark tales that I chose to ascribe to her diminished state and not to the reality of her tragic childhood, marked by poverty and heartache. How desperately I wanted to portage my mother around the rapids that were engulfing her mind and spirit. But I could only hold her and weep, knowing there was no lifeboat.
Two years passed, and the waters calmed. Maman began to drift peacefully downstream. The anger and fear dissipated, replaced by simple joys as she floated through the final months of her life. Purple nail polish. Kit Kat bars. The movie My Cousin Vinny. The love of her three daughters.
Carried as if by a river flowing to its estuary, the sediment of my mother’s life was washed away by the lapping waters. She slipped into the sea’s embrace, never to return to shore.
Kathleen Bourque
Longmeadow, Massachusetts