I forget....

“I forget…..’ the words trailed off as she said it. I could see the pain in her face as she was reminded once again of her advancing years and the impact it was having on her memory.

My mother sat in front of me in her recliner. Slightly slouched but head upright and still wanting to feel in control. At 95 I still marveled at how she could be in such good physical condition but at the same time have such profound memory loss.

More recently I realized that it is not fair to ask: “What did you have for breakfast?” or “Did you sleep well last night?” or “Did you enjoy the movie you watched last night?” because she cannot remember if she had breakfast, whether she slept well or not and whether she watched a movie. Conversation had now shifted to telling her about my day and any anecdote I could think of to keep the conversation going a little longer. She loved to hear me talk but rarely contributed to the conversation.

Mom had always been in control. An expert musician, she played in all the big orchestras in England in her early years. Then one day, my father convinced her to marry him, leave it all behind, and go to live with him in Africa. Her agreeing to such a change is almost impossible for me to fathom. She traded grand stages and rapturous audiences for dusty, remote roads and obscure colonial living just a stone’s throw from the Victoria Falls.

My sister and I were born not far from the water’s roar, just shy of two years apart. The early years were economically and politically tough, and we soon moved further south to what was then called Salisbury, Rhodesia. It was there that mother started playing her musical instruments again, and, true to form, she built a legacy.

By far the best musician in the country, mother led the orchestra and made numerous solo performances. At the same time, she taught many children and built a youth orchestra that never failed to surprise audiences with their performances. Such was her confidence that she insisted that a parent be in the classroom when she was teaching a child. The parent needed to supervise her child’s practice when my mother was not around. Many teachers prefer to teach far away from a parent’s critical eye. No such thing for my mother. She had absolute confidence in her commitment to excellence, not just for herself but for her students too.

The upheavals of Africa continued and 15 years later, the family had to leave almost everything behind and move again. This time to Cape Town, South Africa. In her late 50s, and having lost almost all that the family had, she started again.

She joined the orchestra, toured the country playing concerts and once again built a name for herself. Within a few years she was doing jingles, playing in operas and leading orchestras. The determination, commitment and hard work never stopped.

And through it all, two things shone through. Mother never slowed down, and everything she did was with her children in mind. Unlike her and my father, us children did not have to go through World War 11. Unlike my mother, we did not have to endure the bombing in both Malta and then London. We did not have to find ways to succeed in a war torn country that needed years to find its feet. No, we were going to university whether we wanted to or not. We were going to get all the opportunities that her generation did not have. And we were going to make the best of them. Her single mindedness to this mission wore us down and we both did all we could to make her proud.

She only retired from playing music at 82. I used to ask her why she kept playing so long past retirement age. The answer was easy for her. She enjoyed it. In that respect she was so blessed.

Even in her late 80s she was in full control. Living on her own and managing life after the passing of my father. And then, when she was 90 years old, tragedy struck. Just like that. It all changed. How, after that, can it ever be the same?

“Do you ever think of your daughter mom?”

Long pause. A quizzical look comes over her face. “What happened to her?” Is she asking specifically about her death or just why she has not seen her recently?

“We still don’t know what happened. She went into hospital, and something went horribly wrong. It was such a tragedy Mom.”

I could see the slightly whimsical look on her face as distant memories of her beloved daughter came to the fore.

We were all witnessed my wonderful sister, a medical doctor revered by her patents and loved by all for her positive personality, slowly lose control as alcohol took hold. None of us realized in the early years. We dismissed the occasional odd behavior as part of her quirky personality. But by the time she was in her 50s, the behavior became more constant and by then, she would not listen to reason. Massive mood swings followed, with deep vitriol followed by regret, tears and endless phone calls that were always tough for my mother to endure. I was too far away to help, not that I could have made a difference. It weighed heavily on mother and my conversations with her were inevitably about the things she wanted to say to her daughter but was too afraid. Or the things that she did say that she hoped would make a difference. Or all of them combined and how none of them could, or would, make any difference.

She tried so hard to help her daughter, and the fear of it all going wrong kept her awake night after night. It was an ongoing nightmare. And then. One day. It all ended.

The speed of her memory loss accelerated almost from the moment it happened. And now, I could see that she had difficulty conjuring any memories at all. And those memories that she found. Were they happy? Were they sad? Could she find those memories of her daughter at all? I could not tell. But, from the look on her face, it did seem that the pain was gone.

I forget……. It is sad, it is painful, it is disturbing and it is at times debilitating, but sometimes there are memories that a mother best forgets.