When she was 79, Lois fell through the ice. It wasn’t an accident, but it was a surprise. None of us, not even she, knew she was walking on thin ice. She may have assumed she was ‘walking on water’ having just been wrapped in the love of her two youngest children during a pre-Christmas getaway that culminated in a scandalous prime rib dinner filled with laughter and cocktails. She may have assumed that the slips and falls she’d been having were due to a weakening heart or just plain old age. Whatever she thought, in just one night, after more than 28,000 days on this earth, she dropped through the ice on a river of illness, and never touched firm ground again. No one recognized the danger. One minute she was there laughing, looking forward to several more years of her quiet life surrounded by friends in a small town. The next minute, we watched helplessly as strong currents sent her tumbling through the darkness of an unknown affliction.
Her symptoms quickly evolved from fever to fear, paranoia to paralysis, silence to spasms and screams in the night. For five months, psychiatrists, cardiologists, physical therapists, and geriatric specialists pondered the mystery of a malady that struck so quickly and changed so often. Was it Alzheimer’s Disease? No. Was it Mad Cow Disease? No. Finally, the process of elimination pointed to Lewy Body dementia -- what I call the mean cousin of Alzheimer’s -- memory loss, pain, paralysis and nights filled with terror. No cure, no treatment, all we can do is try to make her comfortable, they said. She moved to a nursing home a thousand miles away from her home town. Her life, as both we and she knew it, was over. We could still see her there, under the ice, but she never emerged.
Before the ice got too thick, she had moments of hope. At times, she could even grab hold of the shiny sheet and try to pull herself up. She thought she might be able to play the piano again, but her fingers became rigid and twisted. She thought she might be able to walk again, but her legs stiffened and bent. She tried to strike up conversations, but she could only speak in a whisper. As the ice thickened, she froze in time and space like leaves, grass, and air bubbles trapped in a wintery lake. Strapped in a wheelchair, fed with a straw, she closed her eyes and faded from view.
The long dark lonely winter of dementia lasted four years. Finally, there are clear signs that breakup is coming for Lois. She lies on her right side, with one hand curled in front of her like a swan’s neck. She has two fleece wool pads (white and green) for comfort and a bright yellow bedspread. The white cloth pony I gave her is by her side, and her puppy dog blanket is folded at the foot. Behind me, a machine delivering oxygen whirs like a lawn mower. Her breathing is fast, shallow, and bubbly. As midnight approaches, we are attended by angels, nurses at this special care home. I call them all Mother Theresa’s because they consistently perform acts of compassion and kindness.
I journeyed through earthly blizzards for this emergence. Here we are in that precious space between darkness and sunrise, when the sky is a determined violet and the birds have started to stir. I am with her, watching life's horizon for her sunrise. She won’t need to chip her way out, or grab on to pull herself up. The ice will dissolve, and she will open her eyes, surprised to feel warmth on her cheek. She will find herself on a sunny shore, smiling with family and old friends. I want to be here when she rises.
Goodbye and good morning, Mom, I will love you forever.
