Friendship + Memory Loss
“I think it’s time.” The phone call was both a surprise and a long time coming. I had been noticing the changes in my mother’s memory for the handful of years prior, however, I’d been frozen in inaction – unsure of what to do – unsure that what I was seeing was real. Memory loss is tricky in that way. It comes and goes, shows itself in a few ways and not in others. It can be inconsistent…until it’s not. Friendship on the other hand, is steady, constant, and reliable. It was the needed force to get my mother moved into the next phase of her life.
My mother Janice had been living independently for the last twenty years. She was a career educator. She retired the moment she crossed the threshold for eligibility and loved every moment out of the classroom. During the first handful of years of retirement, Janice would go shopping with friends, read, begrudgingly exercised, and stayed current with all the Oscar contending movies of the year.
My mother has always been an extrovert and had a network of friends in the community. She was introduced to Lizzie through a mutual friend. They both enjoyed movies and knew several of the same people – a benefit of small-town life. Lizzie was equally extroverted, was retired but continued to work as a bookkeeper, and was active in her Catholic church. Janice and Lizzie would visit together once or twice a month and talk on the phone to stay connected.
A short while into their friendship, Lizzie became my mother’s trusted bookkeeper. She’d help get the mail when my mother was out of town, help manage her essential paperwork, and remind my mother which bills needed to be paid at what time.
My mother had become increasingly disorganized, not disposing or filing paperwork that came into the house. She saved clippings, established piles of paper that “she’d get to later, and never really had a paperwork system that made sense. Lizzie was a blessing in that she made sure my mother didn’t get taken advantage of financially.
Lizzie was the most consistent visitor to my mother’s home. My mother had never loved keeping house, but during her last few years of living independently, she became less and less motivated to clean and tend to her belongings. The clutter began to collect, and her diet shifted more towards prepared or frozen foods than freshly prepared meals. The dust settled about her home, the piles of papers continued to grow, and the chronic disorganization became normalized.
It was increasingly difficult for family to visit, as there was only a small amount of space to gather comfortably. But Lizzie was always welcome and continued to pop by on a regular basis.
My mother began to ask Lizzie to attend doctor’s appointments with her. Lizzie lived one town over, near the doctor’s office. Lizzie would call and remind my mother to be ready on time. They’d make an afternoon of the appointment, tacking on lunch out or a few extra hours before or after the doctor’s visit.
Lizzie would take notes at the doctor; Janice’s memory was becoming less reliable.
This was the deepening bond of friendship: one built on loyalty and compassion. Lizzie kept the changes she was noticing to herself. She had my mother’s trust and confidence.
This was the value in friendship, caring for one another when one’s children are grown and gone. I was living in Detroit and my brother in Washington, DC. We’d see our mother once or twice a year; our relationship with her existed mainly over the telephone. The truth of Janice’s changing brain was less visible due to distance.
As my mother’s comfort with driving long distances decreased, she’d accompany Lizzie into the DC metro area a few times a year. Lizzie would visit her daughter. My brother, sister-in-law, and niece would travel to have lunch with Janice and Lizzie at a central location. This was convenient for both parties but was not directly discussed as tied to my mother’s discomfort driving.
On one such lunch date, Lizzie decided to speak up and share with my brother. When my mother headed to the restroom, Lizzie shared her concerns. She spoke of missed medication, fender benders with my mother’s car, and asked if the three of us could stay in contact. This random act of kindness was the opening that we all needed to begin a healthy, but scary dialogue about the memory loss my mother was experiencing. A third-party confirmation grounded my observations in reality.
Lizzie and I began chatting via email every couple of months. She’d reach out and share an update, in the strictest of confidence. She wasn’t yet comfortable revealing her observations with Janice, but her compassionate conscience kept us connected. Lizzie was our eyes on the ground. She saw the details of my mother’s life in a way that we were not privy to: the buildup of unused medications, the lack of motivation to care for her home, and the repeated phone calls “just to confirm.”
Friendship and loyalty eventually won out. In March of 2019, I received a phone call from Lizzie expressing serious, time-sensitive concern. She felt that my mother’s home was becoming hazardous. There were piles that could cause falls, mismanaged medications, and clutter near the stove. My mother’s memory became even more scattered when drinking alcohol, and there was no regulation on her consumption. Her driving had decreased yet was shaky at best. It was time to act.
I will be eternally grateful for their friendship, and the deep kindness that it produced. Speaking up and speaking out to the relatives of a friend is challenging. In this case, it saved my mother’s life. Lizzie’s willingness to place compassion and need above all else is an example to us all. Her random act of kindness – simply opening the door to a conversation – created the space for me to move forward, make plans, and take action around my mother’s well-being.
When in doubt, I encourage you to speak up and share. It will be difficult; however, it is the necessary hope that that will bring comfort to all involved.
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