It gets harder to write, to try to put into words what takes place when you know your parent is battling with severe memory loss.
I answer the phone and my stepdad tells me mom is crying.
Why? What happened?
She heard piano music and was reminded of me, her daughter. And as much as I loved hearing that she misses me, that she remembers the sounds of my songs being played, it broke my heart to feel and know her sadness. Her tears then took her to her own hands, hands that once knew how to play in C Major, E Minor. Hands that no longer fit the keys because the left is all twisted, shrunken and atrophied because of Dupuytren’s Contracture, a disease she forgets she has. “I don’t understand what happened to my hand…”
How do you find a way to comfort the pain someone has kept bottled deep inside until now? Until life’s ugly little game of the brain drying itself out comes along and steals away everything most rational and what was once “real”. I’m convinced the pain eventually rises, eventually spills over and out from cells that once tried to hang on and stifle emotions and fears. Sometimes I think that is what Alzheimer’s is; an extreme purging of the shattered and tattered heart.
I wrote this in 2010 after looking at some pictures I had taken of my mother’s hands. Today I’m remembering her at her piano, playing old hymns, sometimes singing loud enough for me to hear. And remembering my response to run into the music room, sit by her side at the piano bench and sing along while watching her fingers dancing over black and white keys. As much as she misses my piano playing, I miss hers….
Written in 2010:
My mom has disliked her hands for years.
She hates all the wrinkles. The way her veins stick out and her students used to ask "why" or the way in which they wanted to touch them to see what they would do. She despises the lack of elasticity.
But my mother's hands have always looked and felt beautiful to me.
She has suffered from a disease known as Dupuytren's Contracture which has robbed her for years. She lost almost all function of her fingers on her left hand as they locked closed and began their process of atrophy; the petrification moving slowly up her arm, shrinking tissue and making her so self-conscious.
She hides it.
Keeps it tucked away behind her back or in her pocket as much as possible.
Once in awhile I catch her tugging at her fingers. Making faces like they hurt. But she doesn't say much. Just endures.
I always pay close attention to her hands, both of them.. the healthy one and the one that seems lost. And I feel like I have learned so many valuable lessons from them.
I have learned that life is about surprises... good and bad. And about coping, dealing, and reacting as positively as a person can with the way the dice is rolled. I've learned some surprises are nice... like holding hands.. brushing of fingers across the face... or her hands reaching out to me to tuck hair behind my ear. It's about surprises like being blind-sided by things totally out of our control... like pain... like disease... like heartbreak.
But her hands continue to show me strength and courage.
I love holding them. Even the one that can't really "hold" in return.
I've learned that hands, whether they are whole or broken and bent have the ability to heal.
To nurture.
To uplift.
To ease and comfort.
To hang on or let go.
To tug.
To touch beyond the surface of the skin and into one's soul.
There's an old saying that a mother holds her children's hands for just awhile...
But their hearts forever.
I'm lucky that I have a woman like my mama holding onto my heart forever.
