Reconnecting with My Mom After Her Brain Injury

home insemination Kit

Earlier, we had a rather amusing moment in the bathroom while attempting to get my mom’s urine sample into a cup. It’s not as easy as it sounds: crouching, aiming, and guessing where the stream will land. Throw in a daughter trying to manage her mother’s flow and a line of impatient patients outside, fidgeting and rolling their eyes, and you have the makings of a Mike Nichols and Elaine May comedy sketch.

At times, my mom and I feel like a comedic duo, bickering in front of strangers in dizzying fluorescent hallways. We have become the Nichols and May of post-stroke dementia. I suppose I’ve finally found my place in the world of entertainment. After all, I’ve been a performer for 30 years.

Did Nichols and May ever tackle the heaviness of loss in their acts? Probably not; death isn’t exactly a laugh riot. Yet, amidst the bickering brought on by dementia’s confounding time loops and the frustrations of a daughter-turned-caregiver, laughter often finds a way to surface.

As we sit in the cold air of a winter’s day, waiting outside the hospital for the bus—just one stop away—I feel a moment of suspended time. It seems that the brain injury and countless hospital visits have, for a brief moment, not left marks on our shared history. We actually got along unusually well today. I sense that something significant is about to unfold.

We had just left the doctor’s office, and I wonder if ten minutes is enough time to erase the memory of the doctor outlining my mom’s choices and our (my) decision to proceed with immediate surgery on yet another new issue. I stare at the brick wall across from the bus stop. It’s a rundown housing project. A bleak place, I think, and then laugh bitterly.

“What? What is it?” my mom asks. Since she doesn’t retain our conversations, I’ve grown tired of trying to explain my thoughts to her. It feels endlessly futile.

She’s 75 now, and I relish telling doctors her age; their looks of disbelief are always genuine. My mom was a dancer and figure skater, but in the last couple of months, she’s had abdominal surgery, a blood transfusion, and a thyroid issue that sends her body into wild chills, sweats, and panic attacks. She has endured the aftermath of a devastating hemorrhagic stroke that soaked two-thirds of her brain back in November 2009.

The doctor at her bedside in the ICU told me she’d never wake up. She mumbled a bit and didn’t recognize me. But two days later, she opened her eyes and even tried to show some ballet moves to the astonished residents. When I mentioned that her boyfriend was coming by train, she asked for mascara and a hairbrush. She knew who I was; she disregarded the script and created her own.

Despite the trauma, she still looks great—her striking brown eyes, red lips, and bobbed hair shine, and she still wears her beautiful bell-bottomed jazz pants. You wouldn’t guess she doesn’t remember her own birthday, address, or even her grandkids’ names. You might not even realize she has grandchildren.

I glance back at the brick wall in the dim gray light. “I have a confession, Mom.”

My mom loves winter, partly because she enjoys being different. As a figure skater, she’s accustomed to the bitter cold and often feigns shock when others find winter dreary. She loves to defy the norm and revel in her unique perspective on life.

After marrying, she moved to Los Angeles for many years, raising my sister and me under palm trees where winter temperatures barely dipped to 50 degrees at night. A New York winter was what she dreamed of—like the movies she performed in at Rockefeller Center during her childhood. Growing up in LA, I knew “normal” and Los Angeles were worlds apart; we didn’t rake leaves, build snowmen, or cozy up by fireplaces. Yet, with an unwavering loyalty to her, I embraced the mantle. Now, having lived in New York City for half my life, I genuinely thrill when autumn fades into winter’s darkest days.

“I confess I’m really looking forward to spring, Mom,” I admit. “Something has changed in me this year, and I’m done with winter. I want sunshine, flowers, and light.” I pause, feeling a pang of shame as I await her response.

“Me too,” she replies. “I feel that way now, too.”

My heart sinks and shatters. If her stubborn love for winter has faded and she now craves the gentler season of spring, what does that say about her? Is she still the same person? How do you define a person, anyway?

We sit side by side, gazing at the brick wall. Suddenly, I reconsider. My mom and I are on the same path, looking ahead together. Greeting cards often say this is the hallmark of a healthy relationship. Over the past five years, our bond has been fierce, devoted, fractious, and marred by grief. But right now, it feels refreshing to share a healthy relationship with her. We’re both excited for the arrival of spring.

If conflict is the lifeblood of comedy, I would trade every moment of laughter with my mom from now on for this sense of togetherness. You won’t find a Nichols and May sketch about two people agreeing at a bus stop; that’s just dull.

Yet, thanks to spring, my mom and I experience a renewal of our relationship at this grimy, icy bus stop at the end of January. She won’t remember this moment, but on the bright side, I don’t have to keep it secret. And I’ll always cherish the instant when the understanding we once shared—before her stroke—was rekindled. We have a shared secret, even if only I am aware of it.

Did my mom pass away that day in November five years ago? Am I connecting with a ghost? Or has our constant circling of the same conversational ground somehow brought her back? Today, she has changed her mind about something. She feels something new—something that contradicts decades of steadfast tradition.

Is there any better way to define being “alive?”

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In summary, reconnecting with my mom after her brain injury has been a journey filled with both comedic moments and profound realizations. Our relationship has evolved amidst challenges, but moments of agreement remind me of the bond we still share.