Letter to Millie
Dear Aunt Millie,
Sorry it's been so long since I've written.
We were all crushed when Uncle Larry died.
Then when you lost Scott, your only son, I knew you were dealing with the unimaginable. After that, things fell apart. Mom and Aunt Elaine said you'd lost your mind to grief. Your own daughter said you were just being selfish, and that you wanted all the sympathy when others were hurting, too.
They gave you sedatives, and then they said you were addicted. They kicked you out of one assisted-living home after another for calling ambulances all the time. Then there were the series of stays in THAT hospital. The suicide attempts. The nursing home you escaped from. (I was impressed that you scaled that 5-foot wall at your age, Millie, but you always were athletic. I remember the pictures of you, tanned and strong, cross-country skiing in that deep Adirondack snow.)
Now they finally have a diagnosis and it is Alzheimer's. I wonder if they've told you.
I do know there's still some glimmer of your own mind left, and it's heartbreaking to know that you are moving in and out of confusion. I've wanted to call, but even if I could figure out what to say, I'm pretty sure tears are all I could squeeze out.
There was that one note of humor -- them taking your cane away because you were trying to trip people with it -- but otherwise, Millie, we're sharing your pain. You're all cooped up where you can't get out, and you were such a fresh-air woman.
Mom got that letter you finally were able to scratch out. She read it aloud over the phone last week. She wept at the part where you wrote, "I don't want to die here." Me, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
Now and then, Millie, the warrior in me rises up in full ferocity and wants to rescue you, and that part of me is so hard to beat back. I do because I have to. No cavalry is coming for you, dear.
The hardest part, the absolute hardest part of all is I feel like I should be saying some sort goodbye to you. I owe you that much.
Instead, well, I can't even compose a letter fit to send.
Sorry it's been so long since I've written.
We were all crushed when Uncle Larry died.
Then when you lost Scott, your only son, I knew you were dealing with the unimaginable. After that, things fell apart. Mom and Aunt Elaine said you'd lost your mind to grief. Your own daughter said you were just being selfish, and that you wanted all the sympathy when others were hurting, too.
They gave you sedatives, and then they said you were addicted. They kicked you out of one assisted-living home after another for calling ambulances all the time. Then there were the series of stays in THAT hospital. The suicide attempts. The nursing home you escaped from. (I was impressed that you scaled that 5-foot wall at your age, Millie, but you always were athletic. I remember the pictures of you, tanned and strong, cross-country skiing in that deep Adirondack snow.)
Now they finally have a diagnosis and it is Alzheimer's. I wonder if they've told you.
I do know there's still some glimmer of your own mind left, and it's heartbreaking to know that you are moving in and out of confusion. I've wanted to call, but even if I could figure out what to say, I'm pretty sure tears are all I could squeeze out.
There was that one note of humor -- them taking your cane away because you were trying to trip people with it -- but otherwise, Millie, we're sharing your pain. You're all cooped up where you can't get out, and you were such a fresh-air woman.
Mom got that letter you finally were able to scratch out. She read it aloud over the phone last week. She wept at the part where you wrote, "I don't want to die here." Me, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
Now and then, Millie, the warrior in me rises up in full ferocity and wants to rescue you, and that part of me is so hard to beat back. I do because I have to. No cavalry is coming for you, dear.
The hardest part, the absolute hardest part of all is I feel like I should be saying some sort goodbye to you. I owe you that much.
Instead, well, I can't even compose a letter fit to send.
posted by Mountain Laureate at 9:51 AM
1 Comments:
This is kind and good. Acceptance is the only answer, for now.
S
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