I Look on Helpless.
While She Disappears, One Memory at a Time.
Here’s a thought:
Intimate and personal.
From the day we are born, we are unique individuals.
Blank slate, an unblemished canvas.
Time passes — as time is wont to do — and we build up character, personality, habits, idiosyncrasies, quirks, experiences and memories.
We have a personality peculiar to us, for we are one-of-a-kind.
Our Mould, from which we were furnished — broken, shattered, discarded — never to be used, again.
Unique.
We are a one-off, in every case.
Singular!
More time passes, and this is who we become, full-grown human beings, responsible members of the greater human community, a fraternity.
Yet we strive to better ourselves, begin a vocation, a career, a means of survival and make our expected contributions to society, family, and our circles of influence.
We may follow tradition — get married, or not, have children, or not — but whatever route we choose or have thrust upon us, we all encounter challenges, adversities, triumphs, losses and gains, we fail, we win, life humbles us, again, and life lifts us up.
Yet, we have always made it through.
We look over our shoulders and see how far we have come, and we are proud of our resilience, and tenacity knowing we have taken whatever life has thrown at us — thus far — and made it through.
We are still here, and proud of what we have overcome and become, over the years.
We grow older — welcome and celebrate new life — but we also mourn lost loves and departed friends and family.
This is what it means to live.
Still, time passes.
We look forward to our old age, a time to mellow down, enjoy the fruits of our labour, and bask in the company of our grandchildren, if any, and whatever family we have left.
Generally, we are slowing down, knowing we have nothing more to prove to anyone — anymore.
What a sense of relief. What again — we ask ourselves — were we trying to prove, who were we trying to impress?
Looking back on our lives, we seek to have the opportunity to cherish the abundance and comfort of our fondest memories.
Our hope?
A life well lived.
What is this all about, I hear the question being asked.
Well, it’s about sharing an intimate part of myself — my life — my soul.
But it IS, mostly, about remembering who my mother was.
About recalling her when we were growing up. A no-nonsense disciplinarian, with strong morals and a staunch, faithful believer in her Christian God.
A woman of valour.
My mother will never get to read these words, I doubt she would know who I was talking about even if she did, but the record WILL stand that she had a son who thought highly of her and appreciated her.
And gave thanks to God every day, for the gift, of her.
My mother:
She got married when she was 18, gave birth to 5 children, raised them, educated them — with her husband — put herself through Teacher Training College, and finally retired, 30 years ago, as a Deputy headmistress of a Primary School, (as they were called then, now she’d probably be called Deputy Principal or something high falutin sounding like that).
She has since buried 3 of her 5 children — the 3 girls — and a husband of 40 years — now she remains with the two — myself and my elder brother.
Where am I going with all this? And what’s with the title?
My mother who now lives with us — my wife, son and I — barely remembers me — and is quizzical about who I am to her.
There are days she wakes up — bathes and turns out in her Sunday best, adorned in her pearls and matching earrings, togged in her best shoes and her favourite handbag slung stylishly over a bony shoulder — bags packed — and tells me calmly, “I am leaving now, my husband is waiting for me — don’t you know — I have been gone too long” (my father has been dead all of 20+ years now).
The home she built with my father is over 400 “klicks” away, in a town called Mufulira while we live here in the capital city Lusaka (N.B.: Zambia, Africa, should geography be…. you know….)
Some days she wakes up and thinks my wife, our son and I are visitors to her home, and she tells us, “You are welcome”.
Other days she remembers the names of her dear departed children and now and then, remembers being with them “just the other day” (my sisters all died before Dad).
She lost and ‘buried’ all her siblings and parents, years ago, and she is the last of her “nuclear family”, and yet she remembers seeing THEM, recently, every once in a while.
I cannot even begin to imagine, or pretend to understand, what she has been through, or even what she is going through.
Sometimes she is “lucid” enough to say, “I don’t know what is happening to me. I get so lost, so confused sometimes”.
You see, I am slowly losing my mother right in front of my eyes, as she disappears behind a veil of forgetfulness, as her memories fade, and her mind starts to create an alternate world and life she never lived — experiencing events, daily, that exist only in her head — while her true life dissipates — with its memories — into the ether.
The saddest thing is, she is losing herself and she doesn’t even know it.
Where is my mother? Where has she gone?
Physically, I look at her, and I see her, yes, she IS my mother, the mother I remember, the one I have always known, but mentally, we might as well have never met.
We have become strangers, my mum and me.
I am a stranger to the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, at whose breast I suckled and received succour, a woman who called me “her pride and joy”.
Yet she gave me EVERYTHING and I owe her everything.
EVERYTHING!
What I wouldn’t give, to hear her say my name, and look at me the way she used to. For her to again know me — to know who I am — to remember me — her son.
You see I was her favourite — her baby boy — her “kasuli” — which in her “mother tongue”, means “final, or last child”.
I can never wish anything like this on anyone, not even my worst enemy.
My Dear Mother is in the early stages of dementia, and it is getting worse.
Life tests us, to see of what stuff are we made.
Our response must be to answer the call and step up.
My mother gave me everything a child could ask for, yet, over and above that — she gave me tough love, discipline, unswerving love, a moral code and respect for my elders, a character trait that says, “I am responsible for my actions and no one else, to never, EVER, shirk family responsibility”, to have empathy towards others.
My mother is now fully and totally my responsibility, and should she go before me, I shall hold her hand to the very end, regardless of who she thinks I am.
REGARDLESS!
Yet my fervent prayer is that she goes before me — that would be the most ideal scenario — callous, selfish you may think — but you see ever since my father died, I have had to provide for my mother’s upkeep. She has been dependent on me, but now her dependence on me is total.
I am invested like no one else is or can be. I am immersed and invested in my duty to Mother.
If not for this, what good then is a son? Family is family.
Through all this, my wife — Beautiful, Angel-Hearted — is and has been my “Rock of Gibraltar”, my “Pillars of Hercules”, immovable, resolute — side-by-side — all the way.
My mother, Esther, with her “Beautiful, Spanky Brand New” Daughter-in-Law, Chileshe: Some 20+ years ago. That is my mother — at the peak of her cognitive prowess and powers.
If it not for the lady in red I wouldn’t be here.
Period!
But for the lady in the wedding dress, I wouldn’t still be here.
Undoubtedly!
If you ask me, “Would you rather not be in this situation, do you wish circumstances had turned out differently?”
I would say, “I wish it hadn’t happened to my mother”.
But I would also say, “This is THE moment I am in now. And it IS, only a moment, and like all the moments of our lives, they have come, and they have passed — left their scares maybe — but moments nonetheless, mere points of time in our lives. Moments we’ve survived”.
All I know is that this moment is now upon us, my mother has fought a gallant fight, she has been through the trenches — alone — and she has emerged stronger.
So, whatever happens in this moment, I now stand with her, I will continue to fight with her in the trenches — shoulder-to-shoulder — this is what destiny has called me to — and whatever the outcome — I will do what she did for me — plant my feet and stand firm.
Growing up, I always wanted to be “GREAT”, to be a Nelson Mandela, a Kenneth Kaunda, a Martin Luther King Jnr, a Pele — to move millions with my words and dazzle with my heroic deeds — to have my name writ large — in the annals of history.
Or being a Bill Gates, or a Steve Jobs, to have so much money as to be valued at more than the GDPs of several African nations — combined — or a Mansa Musa, ruler of ancient Mali who is credited with being “the richest man the world has ever known” — possessing more gold than God.
All that would be wonderfully amazing.
But now, as I have grown and experienced life — especially with moments like this — I realise, that “Greatness” doesn’t necessarily have to be as the world defines it.
“Greatness” are the moments when life and destiny call to us — to step up — to be someone or do something for someone else, to stand in the breach.
To, perchance, perform that one little bit of kindness — of humanity — and maybe transform someone’s life.
Looking back over my life, I realise there were moments when I was called to destiny, to “Greatness” in someone’s life, and I fell short. Those were missed opportunities, but we must go on, life goes on — for there is nothing for us in the past, except lessons we must learn.
Mother and I, we WILL meet the enemy, face-to-face, square-on.
“I love my mother now, as I loved her then, as I will always love her”.
What a privilege!
And I thank God.
