Mama and Me Part 4 – A Bond of Two Witches

On Mama’s 38^th birthday, Oct. 28, 1977, she found herself in labor and giving birth to her 10^th child, a whopping 10-pound baby girl. From that day on, she frequently joked that she had stopped having birthdays. It was my turn to have birthdays, and she would forever be 38.

She always made a point of making me feel so special because of our shared birthdays, telling me I was the best birthday present she had ever received. She would say that she was a witch with magical powers because she was born so close to Halloween, and because we shared a birthday, I must be a witch, too. And I absolutely believed her for so many years. Born in the shadow of nine other siblings, she made me feel like I stood out among the rest with this special gift and bond that only the two of us shared. That bond also extended to our love of words that eventually led to my writing career. While she didn’t write much, she loved to read and was a master with crossword puzzles. She always worked unique words into everyday conversation, and I hung on her every word, spellbound (that witch’s magic of hers) by how eloquent she was. She was the hero I looked up to, the woman who knew everything and always had an answer. In short, she was the quintessential mom.

Over time, however, the mom I knew began to slip away and the tight mother-daughter bond began to shift and reverse. I was barely out of my teens, still in need of a mom, when I found myself taking on the mother role in our relationship. Our bond was as strong as ever, if not stronger. Who better to take on the role than a fellow witch? At the time, I really believed fate had led me toward that path. I was in the perfect situation in life to be able to devote myself to my parents. Even now, when I look back and think of all the different factors, I’m certain Mom and I had (and still have) some kind of cosmic connection. We were meant to share a birthday, meant to share that witch’s bond, and I was put on this earth to be her caretaker so I could witness her suffering first-hand, learn from it and then share what I’ve learned with others to, hopefully, prevent myself and others from suffering as she did.

Mom entered the nursing home just a few days before her 68^th birthday, my 30^th. It was a milestone birthday for me. My body at this time was just beginning to nudge me, telling me it was time to start paying more attention to and start caring more for myself and my own health as I handed over the baton of Mom’s care to professionals. I don’t believe the shift of care at this time was coincidental. It was also time for me to start working on other aspects of my life. Less than a year after Mom’s move, I finished school and began working toward my writing career – another coincidence that wasn’t a coincidence. Our paths seem to be forever intertwined, me picking up where she left off, finishing what she started, taking over her birthdays.

I really hadn’t expected my first birthday without her after she passed in 2016 to be as emotional and difficult at it was. I had believed that I had already mourned her loss years before, that I hadn’t truly been able to celebrate a birthday with her for a very long time anyway and her death was more of a celebration than a time of mourning. So when I woke up on that Oct. 28 morning, I was surprised to find myself on the verge of tears, frequently letting them spill over, for most of the day.

I missed her terribly that day. I realized that although I had not been able to truly celebrate with her for a very long time, we still celebrated in our own way. I would spend the day with her at the nursing home and bring her an ice cream treat. Toward the end, my birthday visits were just like any other visit – I would sit with her, tell her over and over again how much I love her and listen to music or sometimes sing to her. In the last year or so of her life, music was the only thing that would animate her, bring out a reaction, her expression brightening as she moved her mouth and made occasional noises, trying to sing along. While they weren’t grand celebrations, they were something we shared, just the two of us witches, on our special day.

Then in 2016, on my 39^th birthday, that bond that had connected us on our special day for the previous 38 years was replaced with a void. For the first time, I felt as though a piece of me was missing. My birthday had never been my birthday. Every single year of my life it had been our birthday, something I had always cherished and even bragged about. And then suddenly it wasn’t anymore. I had always thought that I had mourned her loss years before. But it was that day, Oct. 28, 2016, that I fully felt her loss for the first time.

She was 38 when I was born; I was 38 when she passed. The universe once again was drawing a powerful connection between us. I believe we shared a common purpose in our lives – she couldn’t fulfill her life’s purpose without me and I couldn’t fulfill mine without her. So now we carry on our mission to fight Alzheimer’s; it’s just taken on a different form. She’s no longer with me physically, but she is with me every moment of every day, both in my thoughts and in my heart. For my 40^th birthday – 2017 – my sister, Jo, gave me Dr. Dale Bredesen’s Book, “The End of Alzheimer’s.” But I believe Mom was behind that book, saying, “OK, time to step up our game. You’ve had time to mourn, time to process and time to heal the raw emotions that stopped you from taking action before. The time has come to truly fight Alzheimer’s and to stop it in our family, and maybe even beyond, once and for all.” I’m with ya, Mama, every step of the way. Always.

Happy 79^th birthday, my Mama (or should I say 38th). I will love you forever.

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