As I sit here at my mother’s side, I am engulfed by deep emotion and pure unconditional love. During my spiritual pondering, the vision has become quite clear to me—I have taken down another bicycle from my ceiling. This one must be a mountain bike, because I feel as if I am pedaling along a rough and rocky path of rugged self-discovery. Yet, at the same time, I am blessed with the inner knowing that I continue to gently flow downstream. As difficult as this journey might seem, I am surrounded and cushioned with precious love at every bend in the path. Before continuing forward, however, let me regress a bit as I fill you in on recent events.
In spite of crowed and congested airports, both in Cozumel and in Houston, I maintained a deep sense of peace, knowing that everything was perfect. The ‘old me’ would have been quite anxious and nervous, standing in line for 75 minutes, barely getting my boarding pass a mere 20 minutes before my flight was scheduled to lift off from Cozumel’s small airport. At the same time, I knew full well that I still needed to pass through security. The new me simply smiled and made relaxed and pleasant conversation with the people next to me in line, a multi-generational family group from the Houston area.
My dear sweet friend (and adopted sister) Michelle picked me up at the airport at 11:45 p.m. on Saturday evening. Michelle has graciously insisted that I spend this first week, sleeping in her peaceful bedroom, while she has moved herself into her own living room. Another dear friend, Trish, has offered me the use of her home for next week while she is on another out-of-town journey of her own. I am so grateful for loving friendships, and recognize how the universe is providing in my time of seeming need.
Yesterday, as Michelle and I navigated southward through the sparse Sunday morning traffic on I-15, destined for Provo, my mind was preoccupied with the obvious questions, “What is my mother’s real condition? What will I encounter when I walk through that front door to her Assisted Living Center?”
Based on reports from an optimistic young CNA here at the center, I was half expecting to find my mother the same as she had been three short weeks ago. My instincts, however, were telling me otherwise.
Michelle and I arrived halfway through lunch hour. Mom was parked in her wheelchair in front of an untouched plate of turkey, potatoes, vegetables, and a whole wheat roll. Her water and juice cups also remained full. As my eyes glanced around the room, I recognized the beautiful faces of many other residents that I have grown to love during my frequent visits to see my mom. But today, my attention was only on my dear mother.
Mom was nothing like I remembered. Her energy seemed to be nearly nonexistent. Not even having the strength to lift her sagging head, she was hunched over, staring at her lap through eyes that were barely opened—just a tiny crack between her eyelids. In order to make eye contact, I had to kneel down on the floor and gently lift her head. When our eyes met, she barely managed to show a small smile.
“I love you mom!” I lovingly whispered to her. “I traveled all the way from Mexico to see you.”
“Love you too.” She mumbled, almost unintelligibly, but I knew what she was attempting to say. I knew it in my heart.
Michelle sat opposite my mom, and I seated myself at her right side. An internal struggle rapidly rose from within. One voice inside argued, “No, don’t feed her … you will just be prolonging her misery.” Another voice inside countered, “You cannot just sit here without attempting to help her eat … you have to help her … you know you have to try.” It only took me a minute to begin listening to the second voice, and I reluctantly picked up a spoon.
For what seemed like forever, I performed the emotionally agonizing task of shoveling small spoonfuls of nutrition into mom’s parched lips. She cooperated for the most part, but at one point Mom broke down and seemed to almost be crying. Stuffing a portion of her cloth bib into her own mouth, she resisted my attempts to intervene while the wrinkles on her forehead deepened and tensed.
Gently placing my hand on her skin-and-bones shoulders, I quietly waited, reassuring her how much I love her, just sending her love—while at the same time fighting back a few tears of my own. Soon she removed the cloth from her mouth and allowed me to continue feeding her.
Once or twice I treated her like I used to treat my own young children, “Open the hanger” I said as I flew my airplane-like spoon buzzing toward her mouth. Mom lit up with a slight giggle, and would gently open her mouth, barely wide enough for me to slide another spoonful of turkey past her parched lips.
Getting her to drink a few fluids was even more difficult. I gently placed the fingers of my left hand on her forehead and lifted her head back far enough that the small cup in my right hand could reach her lips without dumping all over her lap.
Finally, after an emotionally exhausting hour, I decided I had done all I could do, and gently pushed her wheel chair into the adjacent room, leaving her half eaten plate behind.
Michelle and I sat with Mom for another half hour, attempting to communicate with her. For a few brief moments she attempted to join in as I sang a few familiar songs with her. After I sang the song “The Farmer in the Dell”, mom actually made silly words with her voice as she briefly mimicked a small segment of the tune.
At one point, I could no longer hold back my tears. With a few tears streaming down my cheeks, I bent over and buried my face in her cold hands, allowing a few brief sobs to surface before I regained my composure. Then, as quickly as the sobs began, I wiped a finger under each eye to remove most of the remaining tears and returned to my upright posture, attempting to remain emotionally strong.
A few minutes later, I gave Mom a few loving kisses and told her again “I love you Mom. You are the world’s best mom. I am so blessed to have you in my life. I’ll come and see you again later.”
As I sit with her again, writing by her side on this peaceful Monday morning, I have barely been able to get a verbal response out of her. Like yesterday, she is sitting in her wheel chair, with her head slouched forward. As I wrap my warm hands around her cold, weak hands, she is mostly sleeping. When I speak and gently wiggle her hands, she briefly responds with loving “mumbling sounds,” responding in the only way that she is currently capable.
Just a short while ago, again holding her hands in mine, I allowed the tears to flow once more. Kneeling down on the floor and looking into her eyes, I poured out my heart and soul to her. “I love you Mom. You have been a wonderful mother. You don’t need to stay here to take care of me. You are free to go any time you wish … It is OK to be free … I love you … I am so blessed by you … I love you.”
It is now shortly after noon. While writing, I noted that the staff was wheeling residents into the dining area for lunch. As I silently observed the lunchtime preparations, another small emotional skirmish unfolded within my heart. The emotional tug of war between my internal voices lasted only a few minutes, ending as I gently pushed mom’s wheelchair over to a young nursing assistant.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” I told her. “I can’t be here during lunch. It is just too emotionally difficult for me to try to help her eat again. I’ll leave that to you.”
“I understand,” were her kind words as she reflected a loving smile back at me.
As I exited via the front entrance, my tears completely broke through my protective barriers, and began to flow freely down my now soggy cheeks. The kind woman who was exiting in front of me turned to ask “Is everything OK?” Before resuming our respective journeys, we chatted briefly as I filled her in on my mother’s condition. Now, barely five minutes later, I find myself under a beautiful shade tree, down a nearby street. My car windows are open, and a cool breeze dries the remaining molecules of moisture from my cheeks.
As I publicly document my raw emotions, I am embarking on another journey of deep self discovery. My mother’s voice has always had a strong and influential presence throughout my life. Her voice always arrived on the wings of unconditional love—yet I somehow managed to turn that love into a great burden of guilt and shame—which in turn blocked the two of us from connecting at a deeper level.
One incident, that happened when I was about eight years old, vividly stands out among my memories. My brother had done something (I don’t remember what) that deeply saddened her. As I observed the disappointment in my mother’s eyes, I remember consciously thinking “I never want to do anything in my life that will cause my mother to feel such sadness and disappointment … Yes, I will be perfect … I will never let her down … I will never disappoint my mother.”
The title of my in-progress book, “The Invisible Pedestal,” is directly derived from this memory. A few years after making this internal commitment, I began to struggle; I began living what I sometimes consider as having been two separate and distinct lives.
The “public me” was standing on my “Invisible Pedestal”, genuinely trying to maintain an image of perfection—trying to please and live up to everyone else’s expectations—especially those of my mother.
The “private me” was in constant struggle, trying to understand, explore, reconcile, and deal with my transgender feelings. Horrible guilt and shame plagued my very existence as those gender battles began to secretly emerge in a powerful and unexplainable way—right around age eleven.
In a very literal way, I stood tall on that imaginary pedestal throughout most of my youth and adult life. I kept my shameful transgender struggles secret, to myself, going to great lengths to hide my internal battles from the world. Just thirteen years ago, at age 41, I finally found the internal strength and courage to share my deeply hidden secrets with my mother.
As I tore down my walls—the walls that had kept us separate from each other—I was thrilled to discover that she still loved me. For a short period of time, I was able to let go of my façade—to be my true genuine self around her.
Then mom’s dementia began to set in. As her Alzheimer’s progressed, she gradually forgot past events—beginning with the more recent events, including those of my transition into Brenda. She resumed using old names and pronouns—not out of any bad intent—but simply because she no longer remembered.
For a while I stopped visiting her—I could not emotionally handle her forgetfulness. I could not handle hearing her lovingly introduce me to others as her son, while she innocently used old names and pronouns.
Only with my own internal healing, and in learning to love myself, was I able to resume my visits. I finally reached a point where I could laugh at the whole situation, realizing that if she introduced me to someone as her “son,” they would just smile at me, knowing that my mom must be really confused.
During the past three years, since my father passed away, I began visiting Mom several times per week. We have developed a bond that I never imagined possible during my earlier years. While we cannot communicate effectively with words, we seem to have no trouble whatsoever in exchanging feelings of unconditional love.
While typing away on my laptop, my dear friend Lori called to check on me. Renewed tears washed away the last semblance of remaining eye makeup as I blubbered away describing the emotional events of the past 36 hours. What amazed me is some of the peaceful words that came out of my mouth as we spoke.
“These tears are not tears of sadness,” I told Lori, “Yes, these tears do come from deep loving emotion … but accompanying these tears is an inner knowing that all is exactly as it needs to be … I am comforted by a profound sense of peace.”
“I would never venture to place any conditions on what needs to happen.” I continued. “If Mom passes on, I will be thrilled that she is free from her suffering. If she recovers, I will be grateful for her continued ability to function. I know that whatever needs to happen, will happen. Regardless of what happens, I am at peace knowing that I am exactly where I need to be in this moment.”
Yes, the emotions are running very deep. As I ended my conversation with Lori, I realized that it was 2:00 p.m., and I was physically famished and starving. Being so immersed in the experience, I had forgotten to nourish my own body. After a short fast-food lunch, I now find myself back at the assisted living center.
I just had a wonderful conversation with Ryan, a young CNA with a huge heart full of love and compassion. I shared with him the deep gratitude I feel in my own heart—thanking him for the incredible love and service that I see him and the other staff members repeatedly sharing with the residents here.
Yes, in spite of the seeming tragedy of pain and suffering—my heart is indeed full. I am moved to tears, not with sadness, but with an indescribable love for “what is.” Life has a way of throwing us curve balls, but as I mentioned in my last post, there is always a beautiful hidden treasure in everything that happens. I cannot wait to discover my next treasure.
© Brenda Larsen, 2009