Most people know me as a freelance reporter for our local newspaper. But for 12 years, my “real” job was caring for my mother.
When Mom moved in with my family and me, we chalked her memory lapses up to “normal signs of aging.” But one day, she began repeatedly asking where her sewing machine had gone. We reminded her she’d left it in Hawaii. She disagreed. “I was just using it,” she told us. “You must have put it away.”
The more we asserted there was no machine, the more agitated Mom became. We suggested buying another one. “No! I want my machine!” she stated, emphatically. She became increasingly fixated on locating the nonexistent machine.
A few days later, when we returned from work, Mom had disappeared. We phoned the sheriff. Neighbors told the deputy that an elderly woman had knocked on their door, saying something, of course, about a sewing machine. We eventually found her, wandering between rows of grapevines. She could see our house, but she couldn’t figure out how to reach it.
Within days, we had a diagnosis: dementia. She was placed on medication and enrolled in our Senior Center’s Adult Day “Lunch Bunch” program, which provided transportation, lunch, activities and nursing care. At that time, Medicare paid 100% of the program fees.
Mom wanted to be useful, which rapidly became dangerous. We’d find her teetering on a chair, trying to turn off a ceiling fan. She’d turn on our vintage gas stove without lighting the burner.
Mom’s physician recommended the need for 24-hour supervision. The flexibility of freelancing allowed me to simultaneously care for my mom and build my career. The minute Mom left for “school,” as she called it, my life kicked into overdrive: interviewing, writing, shopping and housecleaning during those four-hour respites.
A multi-county ambassador for the Alzheimer’s Association, Elizabeth Santos provided practical support and lots of hugs. “Just follow her lead. She will show you what she needs,” Elizabeth assured us.
“Why are those people dancing?” she asked one night, pointing toward our pitch-black patio.
“I’ll go ask them.” I walked outside to chat with the figments of her imagination.
“They’re having a party. Would you like to join them?” I asked.
Mom thought for a minute. “No, that’s OK.”
Another day, she began tiptoeing furtively through the house.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s water all over the floor!” Mom yelled.
I got the mop and began cleaning up the imaginary water.
“Did I get it all?” I asked.
“You missed a spot,” she said, pointing to a nonexistent puddle.
As a child, my mother was abusive. She hit me in the face with a National Geographic the night before school picture day. I’d heave my toy box against my bedroom door, barricading myself inside my room and hiding in the closet until I thought I was safe. I remember being violently dragged by one arm from the Sears’ fabric department, for the crime of being a kid: weaving in and out of tall bolts of fabric on display.
My severe childhood back pain was utterly disregarded. In 2013, following emergency spinal fusion (because I was about to become paralyzed from the waist down), my surgeon diagnosed my condition as “most likely congenital.” I was always an excellent student, but for years I had a recurring dream of walking home from school, the feeling of dread and panic increasing as I neared the house.
Once I was in college, Mom and I had minimal contact. Following my father’s death, she returned to her native Hawaii. I was 21 and chose to remain in California. Mom lived there until she was unceremoniously flown back to me, 27 years later.
I began therapy about 10 years prior to my mother’s return. I clearly remember when my psychiatrist diagnosed me with PTSD. Back then, like many people, I thought PTSD was reserved for war-scarred veterans. Did my mother’s yelling, hair-pulling, slapping and belittling compare to the unspeakable trauma of the battlefield? Wasn’t it just “old-school” parenting? Though I gained some understanding of trauma, it still took years to acknowledge that Mom was at the root of it.
Living with my mom was the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing as an adult. Perhaps I accepted her back into my life because there were no other options available. Perhaps it was because I was the daughter of someone who in today’s vernacular would be called a “tiger mom,” and I’d been taught caring for an aging parent was what “good daughters” did. I am sure I was still searching for validation from her ― recognition that I was actually doing something right.
As Mom’s dementia progressed, she became less agitated. She was happier, sweeter. I’d watch my mom bobbing in her wheelchair, clapping her hands to a Pete Seeger song, or see her come out of the bedroom having drawn on perfect eyebrows ― with a red crayon. The Lunch Bunch nurses adored her. She was the darling of my friends.
I don’t know exactly when the epiphany happened, but I remember it clearly: The person who abused my childhood self no longer exists. She had been replaced by a 90-pound smiling, singing, twinkling soul who was, by anyone’s measure, a delightful person. It felt as if toxic, poisonous vines of childhood trauma that had ensnared me for decades were withering, loosening their psychic hold on me.
As Mom’s verbal skills declined, we had to use our eyes, guts and hearts to discern the needs of a person whose tether to this world was fraying before our eyes.
Mom became incontinent, but was still cognizant enough to feel shame. She’d squirrel away her soiled underwear in the closet, in her purse, or by trying unsuccessfully to flush them down the toilet. Maybe those actual overflows were the source material for the imaginary floods I mopped away.
Falls were life and death issues. One resulted in a dislocated shoulder. Dozens of hospital personnel gathered round to witness a rare procedure: the doctor’s unnerving yank-crunch that instantaneously repositioned Mom’s shoulder, with a subsidence of pain bordering on the miraculous. With no recollection of the injury, she’d repeatedly remove her cloth sling as soon as we’d put it on ― dozens of times daily, for weeks.
Our local hospice sent us Shelley, who provided palliative nursing care for over eight years. As Mom’s mobility decreased, our focus shifted to preventing bedsores, urinary tract infections and dehydration. Evenings were spent folding voluminous loads of once-soiled laundry and adhering an extra layer of absorbent pads into her adult diapers.
Because of the support we had, we knew Mom would be able to die at home. The day came when we were told she needed the “comfort kit” ― a bag containing the prescription medications that ensure a painless transition into death.
When my granddaughter arrived to say goodbye, she reminded my mother of a fun day they’d shared. Mom had been mostly unconscious, but when she heard her great-granddaughter’s voice, she awoke, squeezed her hands and laughed out loud. That was her final moment of consciousness. She died peacefully the next evening, at the age of 97. She never needed the comfort kit.
Photo Courtesy Of Carole Brodsky
My partner has a saying: I always forgive, but I never forget. I have unequivocally forgiven my mother for everything. I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to let the vestiges of her abuse die with her and not invade the lives of my children, grandchildren and now, great-grandchildren. The work on forgiving myself will continue for the rest of my life.
We can only guess what motivates people to do what they do. If I were to interview my mother, I am certain that she would say that she only wanted me to have a better life than she had.
My mother excelled at everything she put her hand to. She could paint. She was an excellent seamstress, and could knit and crochet. She did tile work, landscaping, flower arranging and cooked everything from traditional Japanese dishes to crispy potato latkes on Hanukkah.
Deciding something of my mother’s genius needed to continue. I took classes in flower arranging and consider myself a talented amateur, having created arrangements for my daughter’s wedding, for countless other events, and tragically, in 2023, my most important arrangement, which sat atop my oldest daughter’s casket. Every time I arrange flowers, I think of my mother, and the effortless way she approached any project. What I have been able to rekindle over the years is respect for my mother’s choices, her talents and her efforts to be her own person.
My mother was raised as a Buddhist but eschewed religion during my childhood. Fifteen years later, through a combination of synchronous events and a smidge of karma, I became a Buddhist, taking refuge with His Holiness the 12th Chamgon Kenting Tai Situpa of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism.
At its most basic, the Buddhist practice of “Tonglen,” is simply translated as “taking and sending.” During the practice, you may visualize any person sitting in front of you, complete with all of the reasons for their suffering, transmuted into acrid smoke emanating from their body. You inhale, or “take” the smoke into your body, and exhale, or “send” loving kindness and compassion to them.
When Mom lived with us, I practiced Tonglen, and even now, I include my mother, breathing in her suffering, breathing out loving kindness. In, out, in, out. In Tonglen, I found the rhythm of forgiveness.
Carole Brodsky has been a freelance reporter and writer since 2006, when her mother was diagnosed with dementia. Following her mother’s death, Carole became an ambassador for the Alzheimer’s Association and is now the Executive Director of Hospice of Ukiah, which provides free palliative and hospice care to members of their community in Mendocino County, California.
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