When A-ma opens her eyes, they’re large and glazed over, staring blankly at the ceiling. She’s laying down with her head tilted upward, wearing the same thing as yesterday. She asks me where she is, and I struggle to give her an answer. We’re on vacation. I flew down to see you! Are you thirsty? Want some water?
It’s been one week since my grandma has moved into her new home, an assisted living facility that feels more like a timeshare resort than a place where the elderly go to rest. Doctors say she has at most two more years left.
This is the second time I have grieved for my grandma. The first was when we started noticing signs of her early-onset dementia. I know a third time is inevitable, but this doesn’t scare me — it’s my mom who does. She has yet to start her grieving process. If part of working through our grief means that we learn to accept and let go, she has no idea how tightly she is holding on.
A-ma and Mom have a complicated relationship, as many mothers and daughters do. As I flip through old photos, I see this dynamic show up in how they dress. A-ma wears her hair big, pairing her voluminous curls with matching outfits that accentuate her figure. She oozes charisma with ease. In stark contrast, Mom’s discomfort is thinly veiled by her hesitant smile, short haircut, and awkward-fitting clothing. A-ma was lavished with compliments for her womanly appeal, but what did Mom receive? Criticism for not knowing how to look or dress the part, when it was a mother’s job to teach a daughter how to dress in the first place.
Mom is now caring for A-ma, feeding her bits of a Western lunch: today’s pasta of the day, some ambiguous protein, and a steamed veggie medley. She repeatedly asks A-ma to sip water from a straw in between bites. The food actually doesn’t look too bad, but it’s a departure from what we might have eaten at home. I flinch as my mom raises her voice.
“Open your mouth, Ma.”
“I don’t want to, I’m not…
Read the full article here
