I've Always Liked 76 {My Mother's Birthday}

Ever since I was old enough to know that I was born in the year 1976 ("I'm a bicentennial baby!" I used to crow proudly), I've liked the number 76.

Now I have a new reason to like it.

My mother's birthday was four days ago, and she turned--you guessed it--76.  :)

The day before her birthday, as I was searching for a fitting card for her, was a time of tears for me, and I wrote about that on Facebook.  I'll copy that here...

Today is my mother's birthday.

Yesterday, I stood in the card aisle at Walmart, searching high and low for a birthday card that would be appropriate and would express my thoughts as I contemplate and celebrate the marvelous woman who gave me birth and who has meant so very much to me through the years.

It was a surprisingly difficult task.

With all the diversity that modern card companies emphasize in their selection, where is the birthday card for a mother with Alzheimer's? Where is the card that says, "Mom, you're right here, but I miss you so much. I can hold your hand, but I can't even hear you say my name"? Where is the card that says, "Mom, your memories--of me, of yourself, of birthdays, of everything--are gone; but my memories of you are still so precious to my soul that sometimes I just break down and cry because it hurts so much"? Where is the card that says, "Mom, I feel like I ought to wish you a happy birthday because that's what people do in birthday cards, but what I really wish is that this horrible disease that I hate so much had never come into existence...and that, if it had begun, it would never have begun in you"?

Birthday cards for mothers tend to be lovely and eloquent; and there I stood, surrounded by pieces of card stock paper with glitter and sequins and flowers and ribbons and all shades of pinks and purples and beautiful verses expressing inexpressible love. And I couldn't find a single one that I felt right about giving her.

Oh, I knew she wouldn't know the difference. But the chasm between what those cards expressed and what my inner voice was saying was so great that I felt like I just couldn't do it.

What I felt like I really could do, but didn't let myself, was sit right down on the floor and weep, howling out all the pain and grief of losing her in this inexorable, no-u-turn-allowed march of departure. There was a bonnet-wearing, Old Order Mennonite lady in the card aisle with me, and I wondered what she would do if I broke down and said, "My mother has Alzheimer's, and she's having a birthday, and I can't find a card for her, and I don't know what to do!"

Of course, I held it inside--all those feelings of sorrow that remind me that, even though most days I'm quietly resigned to the reality of this disease and am able to focus on being grateful for the blessings despite the bereavement, on some days, the knife that lodged itself firmly in my heart 13 years ago when I first KNEW that she had Alzheimer's takes another wicked twist and cruelly carves out another piece of my heart. But as I finally made my selection and continued on to finish my shopping, I literally felt sick to my stomach. While I added yogurt and pretzels, Very Berry Cheerios and Italian sausage, tortillas and chewing gum to my cart, my stomach physically hurt--a striking reminder of the emotional pain I carry within.

It had been a while since a grief wave had hit me so strongly. Boy, this one was a doozy.

In the end, the card I chose was uncomplicated. I thought Mother would like the pretty pink flowers on the front, and the message inside was short and sweet--not even coming close to divulging the depth of my love and admiration and appreciation for my beloved mother, but not saying anything untrue either. Simplicity seemed the best choice.

As I sit here now, the tears flowing down as I write, I console myself with the fact that for many, MANY of her birthdays, she knew full well how much I love her. The years when her mind was still sharp were filled with a multitude of tender expressions of love from her to me and from me to her. And I believe that, when heaven brings the ultimate restoration to her body and mind--and to mine, too, when I meet her there--we will have a million more chances to delight in each other's love.

And we won't even need birthday cards to do it. 

So that was the time of grief, but her actual birthday was a time of smiles.  We went to visit her that morning and found her wonderfully alert and happy.  She made great eye contact and, even if she wasn't fully aware of what was going on, really connected with the children as they brought her various small gifts, sang "happy birthday" to her, talked with her, and hugged her.

While we were there, I thought, "Wow, she is really having a good day!" At home, looking through the pictures, I thought, "If you didn't know how severe her Alzheimer's is, you certainly wouldn't suspect it from the way she looks in these photos." Right now, I'm thinking, "What a sweet, sweet gift for her to be so responsive; it truly made it a happy birthday."

Here she was as she turned 76 years old...

 Moriah and Shav had helped me pick out a birthday balloon for her.

 This is the card that I had agonized over the day before.

 Seeing her happy face puts a big smile on mine!

 Tobin had picked some of Grandpa's roses and arranged them in a vase for Grandma.

 I'm always so grateful when Benjamin gets a chance to be around his grandma, because one of these days, if she lives long enough, he's going to make a memory with her that sticks in his mind.

 I spotted this on the table and was glad for the reminder it gave me to give thanks--yes, even in this circumstance.

 While we were there, Moriah quickly drew a picture for Grandma...

 ...and took the time to explain what she drew.

Benjamin sure loves his grandpa.  :)

 I absolutely LOVE the way my mother is looking at my daughter in these pictures--really seeing her, really listening, really responding to what is going on.  Priceless!

 Benjamin was enjoying Grandma's balloon!  :)

 I didn't think to get pictures of each of the children with my mom, but I'm thankful that I got these of David hugging his grandma goodbye...

 ...and Moriah doing the same.

Walking out of the nursing home, I couldn't help but wish that there wasn't any reason for my beloved mother to be in it! But on this day, my sorrow was tempered by satisfaction, and my anguish gave way to comfort: it had been a happy birthday after all.

I do not take such moments for granted...