Growing up, Mimi was more like another mother instead of a grandmother. My sister and I were at Mimi's house constantly. She played the piano at our church. She took us to birthday parties, to swim practice, to voice lessons. She fed us. Made clothes for us. On some rare occasions, I'm sure she disciplined us. I have no doubt that my own heart for others came directly from her, passing to and through my mom on the way.
Now, Mimi is unrecognizable. She can't dress or feed herself. She wears diapers. She never talks. More devastating, though, she doesn't know where she is, what day it is, or who is around her. My Mimi, formerly one of the smartest people I knew, now has no idea who I am. Even if she did remember me, the likelihood that she'd find any words to say is barely above zero. She is a victim to the monster of Alzheimer's disease, the worst thing that can possibly happen to someone.
I really do believe that, too. Worse than cancer, burying a child, or suffering from an addiction, Alzheimer's takes your brain and gradually just crushes it to pieces. To mush. And no matter what you do, you can't stop it.
(And I have, indeed, lost someone to cancer, have known people who have buried their own children - young and old alike, and have suffered myself from dangerous addictions. For me, Alzheimer's is the worst evil, although I realize there is no true or accurate measure.)
The process is slow and miserable. Mimi has gone from our innocent suspicions in 2002-2003 to full blown terminal dementia now in 2011. She lives in Maple Ridge, an assisted living center, and she will die there. When she was first diagnosed, we were saddened, even horrified - as we should have been. But at the time, there was no way we could've realized the pain this disease would bring.
The worst thing is watching what Alzheimer's does to my mom. She has had to take care of Mimi from day one, with no help from her brothers, or even my dad. My mom was the one who had to hide her keys, hire sitters, and go drive in the middle of the night when Mimi would call, convinced she "wasn't home." With her heart wrenching so hard I could feel it from miles away, my mom moved Mimi to her first assisted living center, holding back all her negative emotions so Mimi would have the best attitude possible.
"You won't have to clean your house anymore!"
"You'll make so many new friends there!"
"You won't have to cook!"
And the list went on. Walking through life with your mother gradually losing her mind is inexpressibly difficult.
So here we are, making visits when we can (my mom tries to go daily), chatting with the sitters, superficially including Mimi in the conversation like she actually has the ability to communicate.
"Sure is getting hot outside, right, Mimi?" someone will say, and the sitter jumps in, "Oh, yeah, we went outside yesterday but only stayed for about 10 minutes..."
"We had a really pretty Easter, didn't we, Mrs. Ford?" the sitter will say. "Oh, we did too..." and we all nod our heads in agreement. What else is there to do?
It's not romantic, like The Notebook, or funny, like everyone says. Sure, Mimi has said some funny things over the past 10 years. But really, it's just a whole lot of depression, confusion, uncertainty.
A few days ago, as I watched my mom desperately holding Mimi's hands, calling out to her for some response - any response - I had to hold myself back from just screaming out, "Jesus, this
isn't fair!"
(Not in vain - I wanted Jesus, the very one who died to save my soul from eternal damnation, to hear the pain I was feeling at that moment. And any moment I think about the terrible, cruel, evil, mind-crushing disease.)
The real problem of the matter is that my Mimi was one of the godliest people I've ever known. I know there shouldn't be levels of holiness (and there aren't to God), but let's get real - we're human, and it's in our nature. Seriously, she
was Jesus to me for so long. Why would this happen to someone so...good?
As I was mulling over all of this a few days ago, my attention was caught by two squirrels chasing each other up and down a tree. So swift, agile, exact. I watched in amazement as God showed me his wonderful precision in something so simple. Like so many times before, God pulled me from my pain and into his view.
My Mimi
never once doubted the goodness of the Lord. And neither should I.
Even if God's way is confusing, that doesn't mean it isn't his plan. Even when darkness seems to overwhelm the light, that doesn't mean that it isn't good. Even when we lose our minds in pain, that doesn't mean that God isn't in the midst of it. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up all wounds. Even the deepest ones. Even the ones beyond our control.
Thanks be to God, the healer. Amen.
