A few years back I had the opportunity to meet up with several relatives in a state far away to celebrate the life of a dear aunt. Spending her last years in the cave of Alzheimer’s, she still managed to let the outside world see a bit of herself. When I had first learned of her illness, I had taken some time to write a poem to her daughter who was very grief struck by this change in her mothers health. She had been slipping away for some time and it was important to have her in a care facility. Here is the poem.
A painting which resembles the young Agnes.
MY Mother Does not know me.
Dedicated to Carol and her mother, Aunt Agnes for years of caring family love, and now the challenge of Alzheimers. (written for Mothers Day 2007)
My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.
I often wonder where her mind is.
Did she wonder where my mind was when I was an infant too?
As I lay in my dear crib, could she imagine my adventure?
My mother does not know me. It makes me feel so strange.
I often wonder where her mind is.
How did I sleep so blissfully with all the world around?
Did I cry for reasons or just to hear the sound?
My mother does not know me.
Time has passed and tempered me, I cry for only good reason.
I have had the pleasure of watching many a season.
In my own world I have dwelled but felt not so alone
For always in the background was my mother in her home.
My mother does not know me.
I wandered all the around the world and brought myself to love.
I had a child and family and thanked my God above.
When my father died I felt that I could bear no more.
But there was yet another chapter, another course before.
My mother does not know me.
When I was a child my favorite thing was when my mother cooked.
She put love in every bite and I just took and took.
It was a pleasure of my senses, the smells, the colors, the tastes.
Now I bring her sugar drops and watch her face.
My mother does not know me.
Just as I was alone in my crib, with perhaps angels all around me
So I find my mother now, an infant in new surroundings.
She looks and smiles and is polite, like a traveler in some new place.
But all the while I am thinking of a smiling infant face.
My mother does not know me.
Over time this too shall pass and I will alone understand.
The measure of my worth as human is the kindness from my hand.
It does not matter that the candy is hard and sugary and simple to buy.
It only matters that she smiles and it is to me, alone, that is not a lie.
My mother does not know me. She does not have to.
She is the infant whose pure joy in taste is mine.
She smiles from gas or real delight, locked in her mind the why.
I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time
I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine.
I will always remember that what I have done is true
Each time I have loved her in this way, I have loved her true.
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Her son Greg told me that in the last few days when he was visiting and feeding her, she pushed the food from her mouth to let him know she was not interested in it any more.
Aunt Agnes expressed her love through an abundance of food. She was a person who shared this as an act of love. Her table was heavy laden, her efforts all home made. Squeezing into the breezeway of her tiny home was a long table filled with relatives and food to greet my fiancé. He was overwhelmed with the display and it spoke to him, he loved this aunt and uncle best, pronouncing that was an indication to me of the importance of food as an expression of love. Yeah, I am a pretty good cook now, I never was before that.
In the funeral service my cousin Carol got up and read a lovely message. She said that her mother experienced dementia in a way that was unusual. She did not have out bursts of anger or hate. She could be found praying and thanking G-d. She was polite and called everyone, Ma’m, even her son. She refused to wear her dentures and each person was greeted by her toothless grin. She was once a gymnast, an athletic woman, I did not know her this way, but seeing her lay in state, I think she was somehow back to that, a small, thin woman.
She did not recognize anyone, but she still knew herself. She knew she was Agnes. Now what Agnes she knew, must have been a very young, carefree one. She was a gift always. In her final days she pointed out friends in the room with her when her son was visiting. She greeted them and introduced them, calling each by name. There was no one in the room but her son, and he did not recognize any of the names she was telling him, but they sat close to her and she seemed to look them in the eyes. On the last night they came again and she left with them, she said no good byes, there was no last hug. Out into the heavens she went, off on some young lark.
When Carol received the poem back in 2007 she wrote me a note:
Oh Sheila, what beautiful poetry! I especially love the second to the last stanza.
"I do not care for she is mine and I am hers each time
I visit her for loves pure sake, this infant mom of mine."
THANK YOU FOR MAKING MY MOTHER'S DAY SO VERY SPECIAL! YOU ARE SUCH A TALENTED GAL!
Love,
Carol and Aunt Agnes
Copyright 2010 SheilaTGTG55
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