Finding the Fun in Dementia Care
A former physicist and my mother experienced a challenging day due to her dementia. She mistakenly joined a Zoom call two hours prematurely, repeatedly questioning when her prayer gathering would commence. Upon realizing her error, she retreated to her bed, overwhelmed with sadness and declaring, “It’s no longer enjoyable,” referring to life in general. I prepared coffee for us, sitting beside her to offer comfort. “It’s alright, Mom. You are my closest companion.” She gazed at me, and I returned her stare, believing we were sharing a delicate moment. Then, a mischievous grin spread across her face as she playfully retorted, “Too bad for you!” implying I was inept. We both erupted in laughter. Life, indeed, still held moments of joy.
A Simple Question of Identity and Love
Parked in front of his apartment, I tightened my grip on Karl’s hand, focused intently on the road ahead. The atmosphere was thick with a chilling quiet. Moments prior, I had confessed to Karl, the person I deeply loved, that I could no longer continue as his girlfriend—because I could no longer continue living as a girl. Exhaustion consumed me; the months of concealing my true self had taken a heavy toll. Despite my deep affection for him, my priority was to embrace my authentic identity. Gathering enough resolve, I finally turned to look at Karl. His expression filled with concern, he inquired, “But, can I still be your boyfriend?”
Navigating a Complex Separation
His loud snoring permeates from the bedroom above mine, an echo of 25 years shared, now disintegrating. We exist in an unusual interim, separated yet still residing under the same roof, with legal representation but maintaining civility. He occupies his space, and I occupy mine, but the residence still vibrates with remnants of our past. Disputes arise over finances, raising our two children, and imbalances of power. However, during our Friday evening dinners together, I discern it: “Honey.” The term lingers, comforting and familiar, like a classic melody we instinctively hum. Established patterns persist, even as affection diminishes.
The Resilience of Children and Maternal Love
While tucking my daughters into bed, I asked, “How fortunate am I to be your mother?” Typically, my youngest would simply shrug, but on this particular night, for an inexplicable reason, she responded, “You endured something truly difficult to reach something truly wonderful.” I had never disclosed the painful aspects of my childhood to her. She could not have been aware, yet the memory I had revisited in therapy earlier that day occurred when I was precisely her age: a violent argument between my parents that deeply frightened me. In that moment, my 6-year-old daughter’s embrace enveloped my own 6-year-old self, both of us secure and truly fortunate.