The Letter
It’s easy to take life for granted. At thirteen, COVID had stopped life as usual, locking me in the house with my mom and sister. Life at this point felt oddly normal. The thought of my mom’s diagnosis popped into my head about once a day, but I would quickly brush it off as I hadn’t noticed any big changes yet. She still had her job, she could drive, we had a lot of fun together. I occasionally got this deep gut feeling that everything would crumble down in one swift sweep but that never happened. At one point my therapist checked in to see if I knew about what the disease is and what it does. My initial thought was I’m already living with it, of course I know what it does. Once he started using big words like “cognitive” and “neurons” I decided to stop listening. The only words I remember hearing were “life expectancy.” This conversation just made me realize how oblivious I was to what the disease was and what to expect. I came to the realization that I was purposefully avoiding any education on the disease out of fear. One summer afternoon I wanted to change that. As I was sitting blankly in the blazing backyard, I pulled out my phone and searched, early onset Alzheimer’s life expectancy. Four to eight years, the screen displayed in big, ugly letters. I started scrolling down the search results in a panic. Two to four, three to eleven, five point eight years. Heart racing, I kept scrolling. I wasn’t going to settle for single digits. Finally I saw a larger number, Early onset Alzheimer’s patients can live up to 20 years, read the website. Up to? I thought to myself. I felt so stupid for thinking everything would magically turn out ok. I didn’t know why I was so surprised to hear how long she had to live when it was common knowledge that Alzheimer’s shortened life span. Not to mention the ferocious early onset kind. I crumbled to the ground with a pit in my stomach and tears in my eyes. Life no longer felt normal from this point on.
Two years had passed. The effects of the disease, predictably, became much more intense with a smoldering progression. My sister moved out for college in the fall of 2021, leaving me alone with my mom at a turning point in her disease. I was her only true caretaker, devoting much of my time and energy to just that. The hardest part of that year was coming out of COVID into my Sophomore year. I now had to leave her alone for five days a week when she needed me there most. My grandparents had done a lot for her that year. Calling regularly, taking over financial responsibilities, and doing whatever they could from across the country. That year was not all doom and gloom, however. Some of my favorite memories were created when my sister, Jordan, would come home for breaks. Jordan is someone who I’ve admired my whole life and we’ve always had a very close relationship. Jordan, my mom and I had formed a tight team, packed with laughter and joy.
The last day of my Sophomore year had been the day my grandparents arrived in Eugene for their occasional visit. I was feeling pretty good as my school year went very well, wanting to celebrate with my new close friends. To my slight disappointment, my grandma texted asking me to come home right after school. Recognizing they were most likely just excited to congratulate me on the triumphant day, I walked home soon after the last bell. As I walked through the front door the energy was off. My grandparents gave me their routine welcome hug, but it felt more as though they were saying goodbye. They then sat me down on the couch, handing me a typed out letter. The letter read that they would be taking my mom with them to their home on the east coast. I would leave my childhood home to live with my dad in Creswell. My mom was to move over 3000 miles away against her will and her son to be left here. With multiple paragraphs of explanation I just stared at the letter once I knew what I needed to know. After enough time had passed, I looked up to see that everyone in the room was staring at me. I didn’t know how to respond, so I just sat there and looked around. In a year where I was prone to seeing the negatives, all I could think about now were the positives, soon to be taken away. As my eyes latched onto my mom I saw tears forming in her eyes. Like a wildfire, the tears spread to my grandma, my grandpa, my sister, then to me.
Summer passed in a flash; the move was set for September 26th. I spent the summer blaming my grandparents, “being responsible” for this decision. Really, they were just doing all they could. The summer was very pleasant but the three of us were filled with the constant burden of “lasts” we were now aware of. On the night of the 26th, I was to spend the night at my close neighbor’s house as my dad was out of town for work. My mom and grandparents’ flight out was late that night so I had all day to prepare. The day prior, my sister had left to go back to college starting the painful chain of goodbyes. As the sun set, my mom and I took a walk, one of our favorite activities. I made a point of asking, “Mom, what life advice would you give to me?”
After a pause she said, “Laugh. Just laugh.” tailed by a goofy chuckle.
That was exactly what I needed to hear in those times where it was easy to get plagued by a straight face and foul mood. Humor has always been her strong suit.
As the night grew older, I felt the time was coming. I did one last sweep around the house, soaking in my last moments in each room. Everyone gathered by the front door, I hugged goodbye to my grandparents. I felt no reason to be mad at them anymore. My grandparents left the room, leaving my mom and I alone. Trying to stall, she eventually gave me a slight nod as if to say it’s time. We exchanged a very long hug as I broke out into tears.
“I’m gonna miss you.” I said under my breath.
“That’s okay,” She said. “I’m so proud of you.”
After a while, we let go. I opened the door, stepped out, and we exchanged one more “I love you” as she gently closed the door behind me. Walking away, I recognized that was the first time in years I had felt the true motherly security I had grown up with. On the short walk next door I stopped in my tracks to stare at the stars, then at my childhood home. Grateful for everything.