Earlier today, we shared a somewhat humorous moment in the bathroom while attempting to collect a urine sample. It’s a tricky task: crouching and aiming, all while trying to guess where the stream will land. Add in a daughter trying to guide her mother’s efforts, and a few impatient patients waiting outside, and you’ve got the makings of a comedy routine reminiscent of classic duos like Nichols and May.
In many ways, my mother and I have become a comedic pair, bickering in front of strangers as we navigate the fluorescent-lit hallways of the hospital. We are the Nichols and May of post-stroke dementia. After three decades of performing, I’ve finally found my niche in the world of entertainment.
Did Nichols and May ever grapple with the heavy themes of loss in their acts? Probably not. Death is a real buzzkill for humor. Yet, amidst the swirling chaos caused by dementia and the frustrations of caregiving, laughter still manages to surface.
As we sat in the crisp winter air waiting for the bus just outside the hospital—only one stop away—I experienced a rare moment of stillness. All the hospital visits and the impact of her brain injury seemed to vanish, if only temporarily. Today, we were actually getting along well. It felt like the curtain was poised to rise on a new act.
We had just left the doctor’s office, and I found myself wondering if ten minutes was enough time to erase the memory of our difficult discussion about her treatment options. I stared at a dilapidated brick wall across from the bus stop. It looked like a sad housing project, and I chuckled bitterly to myself.
“What’s so funny?” my mother asked. Because her memory is often foggy, I’ve grown tired of explaining my thoughts to her. It feels futile at times.
I glanced at her. She’s 75, and I take a certain pride in telling doctors her age, relishing their astonished reactions. My mother, once a dancer and figure skater, has faced a lot in the past couple of months: surgery, a blood transfusion, and a thyroid issue that sends her body into chaotic swings of chills and anxiety. But despite the trauma, the essence of her spirit shines through. You would never guess she struggles to remember her own birthday or her grandchildren’s names.
“I have a confession, Mom,” I said, breaking the silence.
My mother has always loved winter, perhaps because it allows her to stand out against the norm. Having been a figure skater, she relished the cold. I think she enjoys the surprise on people’s faces when they find winter challenging. It’s her way of defying conventional feelings.
After marriage, she moved to Los Angeles, where my sister and I grew up under palm trees, with winter temperatures rarely dipping below 50 degrees. The winters of New York City were something out of a movie—her childhood memories of performing at Rockefeller Center contrasted sharply with our reality in L.A. We didn’t rake leaves or build snowmen, and I often envied the full seasonal experience I learned about from her stories.
“I confess, I’m really looking forward to spring, Mom,” I said. “This year feels different. I want the warmth, the light, and the flowers.” I paused, feeling slightly guilty for admitting that to her.
“Me too,” she replied. “I feel that way, too.”
My heart dropped. If her fierce love for winter had faded, what did that mean for who she is now? Has she changed? How do we even define a person?
We sat side by side, gazing at the brick wall in silence.
But then, I reconsidered. In that moment, my mother and I were aligned, looking forward together. Greeting cards often claim that such shared perspectives define a healthy relationship. Over the past few years, our bond has been a mix of fierce loyalty, conflict, and sorrow. Yet, in this moment, we were on the same page about wanting spring.
If the essence of comedy lies in conflict, I would trade every laugh for this moment of connection. You won’t find a Nichols and May skit featuring two people in agreement at a bus stop; it’s just not funny.
But today, at this icy bus stop as January waned, my mother and I experienced a rekindling of our relationship. She may not remember this moment, but I will. I now carry a secret between us, one that only I am aware of.
Did my mother cease to exist that fateful day five years ago? Am I simply conversing with a ghost? Or has our repetitive dialogue allowed her to resurface? Today, she expressed a new desire, contradicting years of unwavering tradition.
Isn’t that the very definition of being alive?
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In summary, my mother and I found a moment of connection amidst the challenges of her brain injury, revealing that even in the face of loss and change, the essence of our relationship can still thrive.