My mother is gearing up for a wedding, and she needs some makeup. I spend at least ten minutes choosing the right blush, eyeliner, and the perfect shade of lipstick.
I’ve already taken her shoe shopping for high heels, and I feel exhausted. When dealing with a mother who has dementia, even the simplest suggestion can spark frustration. Every recommendation seems to challenge her independence. In the Easy Spirit store, I’m juggling my lively 2-year-old, who keeps darting toward the open door while my mother struggles to fit a stiletto on the wrong foot over her athletic sock, insisting the wrong shoe has been handed to her. In the midst of this chaos, I attempt to have a discreet chat with the salesman: “My mother has dementia, so I’ll handle the details. Just speak to her directly, but listen to me too.” It’s a real treat to explain this to a busy New York shoe salesman, who is surely thrilled by family complexities.
Every part of my brain is engaged as I navigate the challenges of both toddlerhood and dementia. My mother and daughter are both sensitive to being talked about rather than directly addressed, so I’ve honed my skills like a covert agent to support each of them. Unfortunately, I often miss the mark with my mother, leading to dramatic arguments reminiscent of a Eugene O’Neill play. We end up vowing never to see each other again. She insists I’m “making her memory worse by restricting her choices,” while I express how utterly exasperated she makes me.
In just five minutes, she’ll forget our spat, and I’ll no longer be angry. I’ll simply see my mother, or the woman who shares her history and essence, yet lacks the vibrant spirit of my real mother. We’ll reconnect, take my daughter out for lunch, and I’ll carry both of them through the day—each determined to assert their independence while being completely reliant on me.
I decide to venture into the cosmetics aisle alone, treating it as a personal ritual. I’m preparing a gift bag for my mother’s boyfriend to take to the wedding. He remembers her from “before” and, like me, clings to that memory while trying to appreciate her current self. She can still be delightful; you just need to catch her on a good day, and her humor remains sharp. A friend recently told her that despite the significant brain bleed she suffered five years ago, she appears “like her old self.” Without missing a beat, my mother replied, “I wouldn’t know.”
I adore the quaint pharmacies that sell soap in tin canisters adorned with sailboat designs. They also have talcum powder. Does anyone even use talcum powder anymore? I find myself lingering there, reminiscing.
My mother bought me my first perfume. We lived in a small Los Angeles apartment, and my room was sparsely furnished; she believed in the importance of cherishing a few treasured possessions. In one corner stood a dusty pink vase with elegant pussy willow branches. My pristine white desk, a hand-me-down from my sister who was off at college, faced Gregory Way.
On my 17th birthday, I woke up to discover a curved glass bottle resting on my desk, sparkling in the sunlight. My mother had an eye for beauty. It was “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder, and I reveled in what it symbolized. I had no boyfriend, no parties, no dates in sight. I didn’t attend my junior or senior prom; if anyone wanted to ask me, they didn’t.
Yet, I had a romantic life of sorts, with memories of my mother imparting wisdom—lessons from her mother, truths she held dear, and insights about men and relationships. During my teenage years, although she had health issues that kept her away sometimes, when she was present, she was wholly there.
I remember one afternoon playing a song for her from a cassette I’d bought at Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. It was Ella Fitzgerald. I imagine that encountering Ella for the first time must be akin to experiencing a first crush. I couldn’t find the words to express the feeling, but my mother could. Sitting on the carpet, she closed her eyes and tilted her head. “She’s silk and honey,” she said, as we listened to 14 minutes of Ella’s “Take the ‘A’ Train,” rewinding it over and over.
My memories of my mother aren’t soft and hazy; they’re sharp and distinct. She was the one who first explained tragedy and drama to me. A champion figure skater, Broadway dancer, television actress, screenwriter, and novelist, she always believed her daughters were far more talented than she ever was. It’s said that daughters absorb their mother’s self-worth rather than just their praise, making it critical for mothers to foster a positive self-image. Still, she made me feel like a precious creation, something exquisite born from her imagination rather than just her biology.
Mom called me the night before the wedding, panicked. Her boyfriend had just informed her he was picking her up for a formal event the next day. She was in a frenzy over her roots needing touch-up, and she had no makeup, jewelry, dress, or shoes! I reassured her that everything was neatly packed in a shopping bag—shoes, pantyhose, dress, makeup, a patent leather purse, pearls, and high heels. Her boyfriend would deliver them to her in time for her to get ready. I encouraged her to take a look in the mirror, reminding her that her hair was freshly cut and colored.
She started to cry. “Thank you,” she said.
Oh, Mom. Thank you.
This article was originally published on June 9, 2015.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt narrative, Jenna Lawson shares the challenges of caring for her mother, who has dementia, while managing her own young daughter. Balancing the needs of both, Jenna reflects on cherished memories of her mother, who was once vibrant and full of life. As preparations for a wedding unfold, Jenna navigates the complexities of her mother’s condition and the emotional connections that bind them. The story beautifully captures the tension between independence and dependence, love, and the bittersweet nature of memory.