The Gift of Being a Nice Lady
By René Anderson-Vorfeld*
I am my mother’s firstborn. I was actually my mother’s only born for twelve years. It was just my mom and I, living with my grandparents for the first decade of my life. I guess I have to give some credit to my existence to the deadbeat sperm donor who provided half my DNA — but my mom met my “dad” when I was five and they married and he adopted me when I was ten. At twelve, my mom and dad gave me the greatest gift of my life; my baby sister, Tomi Elizabeth Anderson.
During my mother’s pregnancy the Doctor said the baby was likely a boy. My parents were going to name the baby after my father, Thomas Clifford Anderson. I said that they were all wrong and that I had waited my whole life for a baby sister, and that this baby was going to be a baby sister. I was told to prepare myself. I prepared myself alright, and I got my baby sister! I have been thankful every day of my life for my sister, and most especially through this journey of Alzheimer’s with our mom. Together we have been able to process feelings from the perspective of a shared, yet very different experience growing up with our mother. A twelve year age difference essentially had our mother raising two only children. I could not have weathered the emotional upheavals, laughed at some of the truly absurd occurrences, or found the joy in many of the simple pleasures without my sister.
My mom and I have always been close and rarely fought. I was always that kid who wore her emotions on her sleeve, who could never lie and who told her mom everything about everything. We could talk for hours (usually while sitting side by side and holding hands) about books, movies, interior design, friends, family, my girls, dreams…
When Mom’s illness took over, the closeness, both emotional and physical subsided. The gentle touches stopped. The easily shared conversations gave way to overly repeated stories. I became the person to blame for a myriad of things (stealing clothing, stealing jewelry, stealing wallet/money, ruining Christmas plans) some of which could be explained, and some of which were possibly dreamed or imagined. What we all learned was that it was useless to argue or to try to rationalize, you simply go along with the altered reality, apologize and move on. It’s like gaslighting on steroids.
The craziness of the disease is that you regulate yourself to the new normal. But the new normal changes at the drop of a hat, and for a rational brain it can take a minute to catch up and get with the program of the new new normal. So when you’re already the bad guy and you’re trying to walk on eggshells to keep the peace, and be patient, and be loving, and searching for a glimpse of that person who knew you better than you knew yourself … it’s exhausting. This exhaustion wore on for three years.
Then one day you haven’t done anything wrong. You’re a nice lady. Those hazel eyes don’t recognize you, or your baby sister, or your daughters. You’re all nice ladies who listen to stories and know all the players. There is a sadness to this because I really miss my mom, but there is also a relief. It is a bittersweet gift to be the nice lady — I am my mother’s firstborn.
*For those that don’t know her, my sister is one of the kindest, most patient humans on the planet. She ran a Montessori toddler class for many years, before running the whole damn school. During her research, she found that it’s not uncommon for the first born to get the brunt of the anger/frustration with Alzheimer’s patients. Others said there was some innate recognition by the patient of just who would be the most forgiving of inappropriately vented frustrations. Either way, René had no shot at not being the scapegoat…
