This week marks the six-month anniversary of my mother’s death from Alzheimer’s disease.
I can hardly believe how quickly time has passed, amid the blur of a global pandemic and President Donald Trump’s ongoing catastrophic administration that seems to poison everything around it.
Still, our own lives go on, and each of us marks the passage of time in our own way.
My stepfather shared a poem he had written this week, marking another marker of time. On the occasion of the 38th anniversary of his marriage to my mom, back in August 1983, in University City, Missouri, he sent out his poem to some family members and others about his life as my mom’s Alzheimer’s disease caregiver.
I felt a huge lump in my throat reading this. Those seven years when my mom progressed from mild to severe conditions were unbelievably hard. He did everything in his power to ensure my mom stayed home and was loved. I have no words to describe my gratitude, even when some days it felt strained. He did all of the hard work. I can never repay him.
He gave me permission to share the poem online. I’m doing that today. I guess my mom is still on my mind. I am still missing her. This will take more time.
She Never Complains
Years go by, years, not months.
It’s true that she becomes a child,
A little one, unable to care
For herself. If you love her,
Care for her, she will love you
In return, hold to you as her
Only one. You are. She knows
Her friends no longer call
Or visit. She will do anything,
Say anything she thinks will
Keep you from deserting her,
Though she knows a day is coming
When you must, can no longer
Care for her, and there is
Absolutely nothing you can do.
Years pass. Years. You become
Accustomed to her gradual
Decline, forget there is an end,
One day notice she no longer
Watches television, wants her
Daily walks, would rather sleep.
One day you realize she is blind,
Almost deaf, and your life
Together has neared its end.
You know. She knows, never
Complains. Soon you must live
Alone. She understands.