My mother didn't disappear from my sight overnight.
She disappeared slowly. Quietly. Almost politely. As if someone dimmed the lights a little each day.
At first, it was little things. A key in the freezer. Forgotten dates. Stories told twice, with the same kind smile. We laughed about it. We said it was okay. You're not getting any younger, we thought.
Then afternoon came, and he looked at me for a long time. Cautiously, uncertainly.
“Does he live next door? ” he asked.
The diagnosis was couched in cautious terms. Gradual. Unpredictable.
The doctor spoke softly, as if a quieter voice would make the truth more bearable.
My siblings were thinking fast. Houses. Waiting lists. Monthly payments. Numbers. As if we were sitting in a business meeting. I listened. Because I already knew what I was going to say.
I couldn't take him to a strange place. I couldn't entrust his fear to the unknown.
I brought it home.
Many warned me. They said I'd tire of it. How could he never know what I'd given up? That love unrequited with appreciation would turn to bitterness. I listened to them. And I stayed.
Home care slowly tore my life apart. First, the hours became shorter. Then the job disappeared. Money flowed in for medications, modified meals, handrails, quiet solutions for noisy nights. My world grew smaller and smaller. My days were filled with her routine, her moods, her fragile peace.
There were days when everything seemed almost simple. He hummed old melodies. His eyes were as gentle as sunlight on the floor. Other times he was restless. Terrified. At things he couldn't name.
My brothers called me sometimes. They rarely came.
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