My Mom

     She sits on the tan leather couch, hunched over, slowly rocking back and forth.
Her short black hair is really more white, having became so gradually over the past few
years.It sticks up in all directions as a thin plastic headband holds it back from her face.
She stares at the floor, her warm brown eyes glazed and lifeless. I approach and place
my hand on her frail shoulder. She has become so thin, almost like a ghost of herself.
Her head lifts and she stares at me, searching my face. Recognition flares to life for a
brief second before she lowers her gaze to the floor again.

     My heart sinks, not wanting to believe that this shell of a woman is my mother. My
soul cries out at the injustice. My mom had always been such a strong and intelligent
person. To see her like this was almost more than I could bear. I sat down beside
her on the couch. I lifted her head, hoping to see the woman who had raised me but
I saw a stranger. My mind wandered back over the years, recalling the person I felt
I may have lost for good.

     The person I call my mother is really my grandmother. She and my grandfather
took my younger, by two years, brother and me in to raise when I was four and he was two.
The woman who had given birth to us was her oldest daughter. I can not call her my
mother because she did not raise me.She was not the one who fed me or sat up
all night with me when I was sick. She had never dried my tears or made me laugh.
I can't really remember much about the years before we were taken from her, but
sometimes at night, I wake up in a cold sweat and scream that I will be good and
to please not hit me any more.

     It was always hard to get my family to talk about those early years,but they
have told me alittle and there are things I can never forget. She had married a
person much older than herself. I don't know if they had to get married or she
really loved him and will never know. Shortly after she brought my brother home
from the hospital, they parted ways. I always though that he had just left but my
great grandmother once told me that he wasn't allowed back in the house. Very
shortly after that, she married her high school boyfriend.Maybe she had just used
my father to make him jealous, I don't know for sure but I think that was the case.
My stepfather drank and couldn't keep a job to save his life. So she worked and
brought her paychecks home to him, and he would promptly spend the money on
beer and alcohol. He was a mean drunk and he had a horrible temper that drinking
made worse. My brother and I made the perfect little punching bags. For two years
we lived in fear, not wanting to make him mad and never knowing when he would
explode. If my mom had not gotten us out of that house I doubt we would be alive.

     My grandparents jumped through hoops for two years trying to adopt us. When
I was six and my brother was four it was finally made legal. My grandparents became
my Mom and Dad. I am thankful they fought for us and could not ask for better parents.
My brother and I were both scarred from those years but my parents loved us and we
began to heal. It wasn't easy for them. Their first five kids were all grown and leaving
the nest.It should have been a time for them to relax and enjoy their time together but
they had two little problem children on their hands.

     Some how, they managed to raise us. I was a quiet bookworm with a wild and
vivid imagination. They encouraged my love of books and nurtured my creativity. I
never heard that my ideas were crazy and they always listened to the stories I made up.
I was told I could be anything or do anything as long as I believed I could. I always
knew that I was loved.

     Mom was a strong woman. She didn't let anyone walk over her and never backed
down.You knew what she thought and what she believed. If she loved you, you were
blessed but if you made her mad, you better run for the hills. She loved to shop and could
spend hours in one store. She also loved to read and our house was full of bookcases,
holding every kind of book. If it was a good story, she would read it. She had a love
of words and could talk for hours about anything and everything.

     About three years ago we think she had a small stroke. She started to go downhill
from there. She would forget things and began to hide things. She always had to carry
two or three tote bags everywhere she went. They were full of all kinds of things. You
could find food, books,paper towels, washcloths, pens, newspapers and so much more.
She never wanted to be out of the car so Dad would drive her everywhere she wanted.
We tried to get her to a doctor but she refused. She did not like doctors. She had a
temper and would throw things when she was angry. If she made up her mind not to
do something, she was not going to be moved.

     Things went on that way for about two and a half years. Then one day in August, things
went very bad. She refused to leave the car and started throwing things at my Dad and
younger brother.They managed to get her in the house but she kept trying to leave.She
began throwing things again and hit both my brother and my father. Finally, the police
had to be called. They took her to the hospital and she was admitted. When the doctors
examined her, they told us she  had the signs of have had several mini-strokes and she
had dementia. They were surprised my dad had managed to keep her at home for as
long as he had. We made the tough choice to put her in a nursing home.

     The first few months were hard. The only place we could find was an hour and a
half away. My two aunts would go up separately at least once a week to see her.
When I didn't have to work, I would go also. The strokes had affected my mom's
speech so a lot of the time we couldn't understand her. Then she would get mad.
She would ask repeatedly if she could go home. Some times she slept the whole
time we were there. It was rough on all of us. Then she began to get used to where
she was and stopped asking to go home. She had good days and bad days. You just
never knew which you were going to walk into.

     After three long months, we found a place closer to home. It takes twenty minutes
to get there and is very nice. We get to see her alot more and her sister can also go see
her. We rarely find her in her room, she roams the halls in her wheelchair. I think she is
either searching for something or just isn't able to stay in place for long. She is always
cold,no matter how many layers of clothes she has on. Her hands are always like ice.
On good days she knows who we are.On bad days she just sits and stares at the floor.
Sometimes you can understand what she is saying. Most of the time you can't. There
have been a few times when I'm alone with her that she has been talking to someone
I couldn't see. I can feel her slipping away into her own world where we can't follow.
The last time I visited her, I sat beside her and rubbed her hands to warm them. I
placed my arm around her and rubbed her back. She leaned into me, placing her
head on my shoulder. It felt as if I was the mother and she was my child, looking for
protection from the cruel unfeeling world. I felt helpless to protect her. In that moment,
I knew how empty my life would be without her. I knew how much I owed to this
wonderful woman and that I could never repay her. She was leaving this world behind.
She was leaving me behind. This could go on for many years, her in a limbo world. It
will get worse and she will become lost to us. The body will still be here but it is just
a shell, a shadow of my mother. But I will go as often as I can to sit beside her or
follow her through the halls. And then I will go home and cry for all the things I miss.