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My Mom’s Wedding Day Dilemma
My mom was invited to a wedding, and naturally, she needed some makeup. I spent a good ten minutes picking out the perfect blush, eyeliner, and just the right shade of lipstick. We had already gone shopping for heels, and I was completely wiped out. When you’re dealing with a parent who has dementia, every little suggestion feels like a direct attack on their independence. In the midst of this chaos at the shoe store, my two-year-old kept darting toward the exit, drawn to the sunlit spring day. Meanwhile, my mom was struggling to fit a stiletto on the wrong foot, insisting that the staff had given her the wrong shoe.
As I raced to grab my child, I tried to discreetly explain the situation to the salesman: “My mom has dementia, so I’ll take the lead here, but please talk directly to her.” It’s always a delight trying to break this down to a busy New York salesman who probably doesn’t have time for complex family dynamics.
Juggling both my mother and toddler has sharpened my skills significantly; I’m like a secret agent trying to navigate their emotions. Both are hyper-aware of being spoken about rather than to, which can lead to tense moments. I often find myself in heated exchanges with my mom, where we agree never to see each other again. She accuses me of making her memory worse by not letting her make her own choices, while I tell her she’s driving me up the wall. But in just a few minutes, she’ll forget the argument, and I’ll be left with the woman who has bits of my mom’s history but lacks the vibrant spark she once had. We’ll go back to being friends, taking my daughter out for lunch while I juggle both of their needs.
I decided to venture into the cosmetics aisle on my own, treating it like a sacred mission. I wanted to prepare a gift bag for my mom’s boyfriend for the wedding. He remembers her as she was and clings to that memory despite the changes. However, she can still be a blast on the right day; her humor is still sharp. Just recently, a friend told her that despite her health challenges, she seems “like her old self,” to which she replied, “I wouldn’t know.”
I have a soft spot for old-fashioned pharmacies that sell nostalgic items, like soap in cool tin canisters. My mom once bought me my first perfume in Los Angeles — a beautiful bottle of Estée Lauder’s “Beautiful.” I remember waking up on my 17th birthday to find it glistening on my desk. My mom had an eye for detail, and I cherished that moment, even though my teenage years were a bit lonely.
One afternoon, I played my mom an Ella Fitzgerald cassette I bought at Tower Records. I remember her closing her eyes and saying, “She’s silk and honey.” Those moments with mom were priceless. She taught me so much about life, love, and self-worth, even during her health struggles.
The night before the wedding, she called me in a panic. Her boyfriend had reminded her about the formal event, and she felt completely unprepared — no makeup, no jewelry, and no outfit. I reassured her that I had everything ready in a shopping bag, including shoes and cosmetics. I told her to look in the mirror; her hair was freshly styled. She cried with relief and said, “Thank you.” Oh, Mom. Thank you.
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In summary, caring for a parent with dementia while managing a toddler can be a rollercoaster, filled with sweet memories and challenging moments. Despite the struggles, the bond remains strong, and it’s these shared experiences that truly matter.