Wishing for Recognition

Friday afternoon I returned from a nice three and a half week traveling vacation. It was a combination of adventure, meeting up with friends in various places, and attending the lovely wedding of friends’ second oldest daughter. I had planned my journey and presumed that my mother would be fine while I was away. Thankfully, she was indeed fine when I returned and seemed content.

I thought I was further along with acceptance

As her caregiver and daughter I’m aware that I deceive myself in some ways. It was after I returned that I realized one way that I do this and end up hurting myself. Over the past year I have been working on calming my mind and accepting the current situation and my mother’s declining status. It seemed that I had in fact made progress, until I returned home Friday.

While I was away, a dear friend looked in on mom often and he occasionally sent me a picture or two. It was calming for me to know that she was doing well. But it’s interesting to me how I had translated what I wanted to see in the photos that Mark sent. I have always known my mother’s expressions. In some photos I saw my mother expressing sadness. I knew with certainty that I could see sadness in her facial expressions. So naturally, because I wanted to be important to my mother, I chose to interpret that she was missing me. This was another way that I was wishing for recognition, by her missing me. I spent a couple of weeks building this scenario in my mind.

Anxious to see mom and wishing for recognition

On my drive home Friday, I stopped to see mom even before going to the house. I was anxious to see her and for her to know that I was home safe. Surely it would be important for her to know that I’m home and I could give her a hug and kiss. Mom would undoubtedly feel my love for her and know how important she is to her daughter.

I found mom in the afternoon activities. She was alert and engaged and I was thrilled to see this. So I went in the back door and quietly approached so not to disturb anyone. I knelt down in front of her to give her a hug. But when I spoke to her, she just looked at me with a blank look on her face. I would describe her look as vacant. That’s a word used frequently with late stage Alzheimer’s patients.

I got right down in front of her so she could see my face clearly. No reaction. Nothing sparked a reaction from her – not my face, not a hug or kiss, gently rubbing her back or hands, or the calming sound of my voice telling her that I love her – nothing took away that vacant look. I had so been wishing for recognition.

Mom was indeed fine. I left there crushed. I just wanted her to know me. And I learned that I still have much work to do on myself.