The time I went to a barn in Maryland and sat with my grief about my mother
There are mixed opinions on whether to write about one’s grief as it occurs or to wait when it’s not so painful. I suppose the ravages of Alzheimers are so intense for the family, so debilitating for the person, it’s hard to not be living with constant grief while also moving through it. Like sludge.
My therapist thinks it’s too much to write about right now but a beloved writer friend reminded me that if I don’t write it down now, I won’t remember it.
It’s been such a fast decline, my mother’s health. And scary to watch. By all counts she’s healthy, never worried once about cholesterol or blood pressure, diabetes, arteries. Oh but her mind. It’s gone. Completely. And it won’t ever come back. And all my questions will go unanswered and all the fun we were going to have won’t ever be a thing. And though I haven’t lost her yet. I have.
So okay. I live with this as she lives on, hopefully she’s happy enough at her assisted living residence, where at I know she’s safe and being cared for by kind professional humans. Where she’s spent about two months, but more than half the time since she’s been there she’s been at the hospital including some time in the psych ward and then rehab and then back to the residence. And then back to the hospital for a UTI where we had to argue for her to not have to go back to rehab because rehab for what? And all while the professionals are telling us how bad it is for people with Alzheimer’s to move back and forth. And all this is just making her symptoms so much worse.
So I take some deep breaths and goodness, take a few more. Take some walks. Cry into my pillow. But also all the things, the practices I’ve been building, ohhhh, I get it, the exercise and eating well and friends and writing and community and gratitude and gardening and making pottery and connecting with nature and the elements and the moon and following the seasons as they come and go even when they’re weird and warmer, those things help with the grief. Or help to manage it.
And so that’s how I find myself in this barn apartment in rural Maryland, right near Boring, Maryland (I’m hoping to drive over there tomorrow because how often will I be close to a town called Boring.) Because travel is also self care. And as my darling husband will be off to the EU for several weeks, I was able to book a week at this writers farm. Not like, a farm of writers, but this writer/farmer has a farm with a couple of little studios on it and rents them out for cheap to writers, so I’m in the barn loft. And I swear to you I have never heard quiet like it is out here. Maybe I haven’t been to enough really quiet places, but this is bizarrely quiet.
It’s migrating season and there are so many birds. And really bright sunshine through these big barn windows and nothing to do but write and read and listen to music. Cook. Sleep. My mother would be so bored here but she would love it, because she was always so good about making the best of any situation. And I guess I got that from her. But also if she was her old self she would drive me insane if she was here at this place withme, so I’m not saying I wish she was here, but…you know what I mean.
