In screenwriting, the three-act structure can be broken down as exposition, rising action and resolution. In my relationship with my mother, the third act of “resolution” began in 2009, and followed the lengthy and excruciating first and second acts of “raised by crazy mom” and “estranged from crazy mom.”
The thing about our third act is that for many years, I had no idea if it would ever come. My mother could have passed away before I saw her again (and that dreadful scenario was ever-present in my imagination). We needed a transition between the second and third acts, which, mercifully, was facilitated by a social worker. Once the third act started, I didn’t know how long it would last, and still don’t, but now count every year as a bonus. And given the volatility of our first act, the nature of this final one is, well, quite bizarre.
When my mother was crazy with undiagnosed psychosis, it was difficult to be anywhere near her. She was often in a rage, and when she wasn’t, my sister and I would be waiting on tenterhooks for the next rage to start. My sister left home at age 17 and I was out by 15 (and lived with my sister, a benefit of being the younger sibling). As I turned into a late-years teenager and then young adult, my mother behaved toward me the same way she had always interacted with the “outside world,” her rage replaced by a carefully controlled mask. It was fragile and fake, and, in the moments when cracks appeared and her behavior faltered, completely unnerving.
I tried to keep up a relationship – who doesn’t want a mother? – but the anxiety that came from dancing with the devil (or “dancing with the crazy person who is acting sane”) impacted my own mental health so much that eventually I had to sever all ties. I hid from her. She didn’t know my phone number. She didn’t know my address. She didn’t know that I got married. From my end, I knew where she was at all times, but was painfully aware that there was nothing within the law that I could do to help her.
After all of that, Act Three opened with my mother’s diagnosis of dementia. It was already quite advanced when an aunt took Mum to the hospital. She stayed there for three months before going to a nursing home, and that is where my sister and I met her again for the first time in 17 years.
Most people don’t count dementia as a blessing, but my sister and I do. My mother is no longer paranoid, suspicious of everything that moves. She has no anger left. Her delusions are gone. So is her memory and her verbal recall, but she doesn’t miss them anyway. In a magic twist of fate, she is the happiest, most cheerful and easygoing resident in her nursing home ward. And because of this, I have my mother back in my life. She doesn’t know who I am, but boy, do we ever enjoy each other’s company.
Mum turned 80 last Friday. To celebrate, I joined my sister, her ex-husband and their two sons, and we all took Mum for lunch and a walk in the park. We visited the petting zoo, where Mum was greatly amused by the children and I was greatly amused by the goats. We ate strawberries at a picnic table, and hamburgers and French fries at a restaurant. Mum chattered and sang and laughed. My brother-in-law, who hadn’t been near her for decades, was a bit freaked out. He said, “It’s almost like she’s faking it. You know, the last time I saw her, she tried to kick me in the balls.”
“Nope,” I said. “This is real. This is her.”
Our third act has been playing without intermission for six years now. Mum is physically healthy, and her dementia has leveled off quite remarkably, with no major changes in her symptoms for the last few years. I visit her whenever I can (she is in B.C., I am in Seattle) and just keep adding scene after scene to the screenplay that is our lives, filling those long-empty pages and feeling blessed that we never seem any closer to having to write an ending.
Laura, I’m so glad that the third act of your drama is so much happier than the first two – and though it’s not the classic happy ending, it’s a moving and enriching one, and may you enjoy many more of your mother’s birthdays together with your family. That last photo is pure fun!
Thank you so much, Debbie. That third photo: my mum has a habit of stringing together both English words and jibber jabber that somehow come out as pure comedy. I’m pretty sure that was one of those moments!
Laura, by sharing your story you are putting a hand out to help so many others who have had complicated journeys with a parent.
I agree it’s unusual for dementia to provide a positive but I am glad that it hasn’t added to the negatives that were apparent until this disease took over.
Many hugs.
Thank you for those wonderful words, Jo-Anne. Many hugs to you, too!
This really touched me, my dear friend, as I remember when I first met you all those years ago, all that was present was a beautiful, bubbly person – in no ways showing the trauma you must have experienced! – I applause you!! Much love, Lee xxx
Thank you, Lee. While I’m glad for what you saw, it also shows how much we hide and how we have no idea of the stories that people are walking around with (until/unless you write about them, like I’ve been doing!). And I believe that people carry a lot of stuff around with them. My goal is to bring everyone closer because we’re really never alone in how we’re feeling or what we’re going through. It’s just hard to show it to other people sometimes.
Much love to you as well. I still hold so many happy memories of those days together all those years ago! (But not that many years ago, because then that would make us old, right?!)
So touched by this post and the photos attached. Such freedom when there is no fear for all of you. Much blessings. xoxoxo
Such freedom, yes! Maybe that’s why we’re extra silly and goofy, because we’re feeling so free to feel the joy! Thank you for your kind words, Jodi (always). xoxo
Wonderful, Laura! What a great ending!
Mary, you have been on my mind! I will check in with you via email. And thank you for your kind comment. xox
Such a thoughtful and uplifting story. Such a blessing that you are able to enjoy. Thanks for sharing.
It’s truly a blessing, Deniece. Thank you for reading! xo
So happy for you that you got the third act. Powerful story!
Hi Christina! It’s so nice to have you visit here! And thank you. xoxo
This is such a heartening story, Laura. I am so happy for you! It is an unusual way to be re-united with your mum, but what a blessing!
Hello, Val! And thank you. I appreciate your kind words.
Resolution really does come in all shapes and forms, so even though gaining yours via your mother’s dementia is unconventional, it’s so worth taking, right? Who doesn’t want a mother? How strongly those words ring with me and how strongly I still feel that I will never truly know mine, though this weekend’s wedding did lead to her hugging me for the first time since eighth grade. I’ll take it 😉
Wow, that is pretty big, Jeri. Yup, it’s worth taking, and embracing what is. Thank you.
Laura – you are so thoughtful and eloquent, you bring tears to my eyes.
Mar
Aw, thank you for that, Mar.
Oh, Laura, this touches my heart. I’m so happy you’re getting to enjoy your mother now. So grateful you’re willing to share your experiences as her daughter. You are one impressive person having taken the road you took to be able to arrive at the wise and empathetic place you are at today.
I can’t say that the road has been without its challenges and rough patches, but all in all, “working on myself” has been a very meaningful journey. And thank you, because in those moments when I feel like a total train wreck, I turn to words like yours. I’m not kidding. I really do.
What a beautiful post, Laura. I’m so glad you have this Third Act with your mom. I’m experiencing something similar with my own mom. My dad is the one who was mentally ill, but that meant that my mom was left to raise four kids by herself as well as manage my father’s care. She was not a pleasant person to be around in those years. It didn’t take much for her to raise her voice, fire angry eyes at me, and then give me the cold shoulder for days. For decades after I left home we were like oil and water. But since my stepfather died and she’s living on her own, it’s like she’s a new person. Easygoing. Affectionate. Undemanding. Calm. She’ll be 92 this year and, like you, I’m grateful now to have these years with her, getting to know and be with the mom I wish she could have been all those years ago. But I’ll settle for what I can get. Because like you say, “who doesn’t want a mother?”
That’s amazing, Marie. And wow, phew, 92 — so glad you’re having this time with your mom! Maybe she was also just meant to be single?! Women question that as a factor in their happiness a lot more these days than they did back then. Thanks for sharing your happy ending! xo
Laura,
Sorry to hear about your difficulties with your mother. It’s sad that she went undiagnosed for so long. At least an explanation for her rage would have been somewhat helpful. But your Act Three is a wonder of life. It shows how we can’t plan things, and how unexpected moments or situations turn us in another direction. I wish you the best with your mother, and I’m glad you’re enjoying each other.
Denise
Thank you, Denise. I really appreciate your thoughtful words.
Just a note to say how much I enjoyed your Third Act. Very touching. Not that many people are able to enjoy family members with such a rocky and dysfunctional history. It’s encouraging that the medicine and our understanding is improving.
Thank you, Dennis. I often wonder if it would have played out differently today than it did in the 1970s. I mean, I hope it would! But it’s hard to say. While we talk about mental illness more, the laws around an individual’s rights remain as strong as ever, and so unless they’re a physical threat, there is little one can do.
What a bittersweet blessing for you both; how ironic that her dementia is a sort of blessing in disguise. I’m glad you’ve been able to reconnect after all that’s happened. Sounds like the beginnings of a happy ending.
No “sort of” there, Diane — I truly believe it is! If she hadn’t developed dementia, the twilight years of her life would have been horrid. Just horrid. And I would have never seen her. So I count it as a blessing that borders on a miracle! Thank you for stopping by. xoxo
I’m glad to read this. My sister is 54 and has schizophrenia and also has early dementia but is still extremely paranoid. This gives me hope — maybe she will become less paranoid as her dementia progresses. Do you know if that’s a common outcome?
Hi Marilyn, I’m sorry to hear that about your sister, and while I don’t know if it’s a common outcome, I would tend to believe it’s a definite possibility, simply because as memory recedes and cognition changes, a person has less ability to focus on past and future threats. But like you, I wonder if it’s common and would like to find out more. I have seen so many cases of perfectly pleasant people turning quite ornery and angry from dementia and Alzheimer’s, so is it a case of “opposite effect” on a person’s personality?!
Here is a New York Times piece that someone pointed me to after I posted this blog post. It’s similar in tone to what I wrote about: http://nyti.ms/1UP5aLx
Thank you for reading and for sharing, and I wish you the very best.
Beautiful, Laura. I too love that third photo. Thanks for the reminder that we need to take whatever blessings we get from a difficult relationship, and find a way to be thankful for those brighter moments. Wishing for “shoulds” and might-have-beens just makes us sad and sucks the joy out of what is in front of us. I’m so glad healing has come to your relationship. xx
Thank you so much, Belinda. I’ve definitely had the moments/months of “shoulds” and “might-have-beens,” but thankfully they are being gently replaced by these more joyful times.
Loved, loved, loved this post Laura. You obviously have an amazing open heart that is ready to receive love at any time.
This story is almost exactly what happened with my dad and our family. My dad was a good man but didn’t know how to show much love when we were children and was a strict disciplinarian – when he developed dementia he became much more open to receiving love and allowed us to care for him which was such a blessing.
I kept saying the same thing when I spoke about his dementia…..”I know this might sound odd, but I am happy that my dad has dementia because we have a whole new relationship”. People often looked at me as if I was crazy.
I believe that when people develop this disease in later years their souls and hearts are often healed. Their minds may not be in the present but their hearts never forget and they are given a second chance at receiving love.
Thank you so much.
Barbara, thank you so much, and I can’t even express how happy I am that it resonated. Your observation that it can be a second chance at receiving love brought a tear to my eye. Yes, it’s not only an opportunity for the caregiver. It can be a real, true, vital opportunity for the person receiving the care, and the love.