Page 97 of Family Like This

And while she was right, I’ve come to believe those words more about life in general.

Beauty is fleeting. Beautiful, wonderful moments don’t last. They always come to an end, often abruptly, as life takes a sharp turn.

That’s today.

While I basked in the warm, wonderful moments of our photo shoot this morning, life was warming up to bitch slap me in the afternoon.

“What exactly did they say?” Miles says as we get out of the car at the nursing home.

I sigh and stop at the hood, taking a deep breath.

We’d just finished a delicious lunch of leftover chicken parm that Miles made into sandwiches on garlic toast when the head nurse of my mother’s floor, Noelle, called. She said not to worry too much, but she wanted to chat with me and give me a heads up before our next visit that they’ve noticed my mother declining over the last few weeks—and especially the last several days.

About a month ago, I’d noticed her having a little more confusion and struggling to find the right words more often than her previous normal. I didn’t think too much of it since Alzheimer’s comes with good days and bad ones. I had also noticed her seeming a little less coordinated than usual, but since I watched her and saw no signs of stroke—which there is a higher risk of with dementia—I tried not to worry too much about that either. At the time, the nurses didn’t mention anything to me, but it turns out they were just waiting so as not to stress me out over nothing.

But this is something.

Something I’ve been fearing. A decline.

The life expectancy after diagnosis with Alzheimer’s can be as long as twenty years, but that’s rare. Eight is the more reasonable long end of the spectrum. Four years is typical for someone diagnosed when my mother was. It’s been nearly two now, and I’d let myself get comfortable, situating those fears about her decline in a comfy chair in the back of my mind. It’s rare that they come out, but here they are, front and center. Because it’s not fear anymore. It’s reality. The reality is that my mother could die within the next year or two.

I thought I’d made my peace with it, but that was before this. Before I was pregnant. Before I was desperate to have even an ounce of my mother to cling on to. Now the shreds of her I have are being ripped away.

“Ames,” Miles whispers, running his hands down my arms. He pulls me into a hug, holding me as tightly as he can without squishing my bump. Our little girl kicks hard, like she knows her daddy is close, and my heart aches all over.Is this the future our daughter is going to have?I’ve gone back and forth for a long time about whether I wanted to know if my mother’s Alzheimer’s is genetic—something likely to pass on to me too. Supposedly, there are tests we can do to find out. I didn’t used to want to know, but now… I’m wondering if I should. I want to be prepared so I can prepare our daughter and make the most of every second with her.

I look up at Miles as tears well in my eyes. The gentleness in his expression and the way he cups my cheek make me feel like I’m going to come apart at the seams. I can’t hold it all back or keep it together. It’s like I’m a fraying piece of cloth and he’s holding one end of the string, tugging just enough to slowly unravel me.

I can’t fall apart now.

I need to see my mom, talk to the staff, and find out what’s next.

I force another breath and find that cozy room in the back of my brain, stuffing all the fear and uncertainty and pain into it and barring the door.

I squeeze Miles’s hands and look toward the building. “I’ll explain while we walk.”

He looks at me for a moment, then nods, kissing the side of my head before walking with me toward the building.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Noelle says gently as we talk in the social worker’s office.

The social worker, Leann, agrees. “We’ll do some evaluations and see what they tell us. Either way, we’re going to keep taking great care of your mom so you can focus on taking care of you.” Then she slides me a folder with resources for counseling and support groups for families of loved ones with dementia. “Did you have any questions for me?”

“No, I don’t think so. Thank you for meeting with us,” I say quietly, as Miles takes my hand under the table.

A few minutes later, we’re walking down the hall with Noelle.

“I’m sorry for such a heavy conversation, especially when you have so many other things going on.” She looks at my stomach.

“It’s okay. I’d rather know.”

She nods. “Go on and see her. All the medical terms can make things sound worse than they are. Maybe a visit with her will help.”

Miles wraps an arm around me, pulling me tight to his side, but not saying a word. I’m relieved about that because I couldn’t stand to hear stupid platitudes about how it’s all going to be okay and how I shouldn’t worry.

Worrying is all I’ve got right now. I rest my hand on my bump, trying to stay calm for her sake. It’s not healthy for me to stress about things, but trying to control stress just makes memorestressed.

We walk into her room, and the curtain to her area is open. There’s no noise, which is unsettling because my mother is usually humming or talking to herself.

Tonight she’s propped up in bed. Her hair is a mess and she’s wearing a nightgown. There’s a Disney movie playing on the television and she’s staring absently at it.

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