Big Girls Don't Cry

It was 8:30 and the sun was already up. This was the perfect day and the commute was not a factor this morning. For the first time in a long time, I was not in a hurry to get there. I could barely see out of my rearview mirror for all the stuff from Mervyn’s, Target and Wal-mart. My Windstar was packed with linens, toiletries, clothes, pictures, flowers. All of what I thought a new home shouldn’t be without.

Today, was the day I checked mom into an Alzheimer’s’ facility. Everything was going according to plan. I accomplished everything on my checklist. I was replaying the chain of events and admiring my fine organizational skills when my smile began to crack; and this inexplicable feeling of anger, bitterness, happiness, sorrow, regret, anxiety and grief began to strangle me.

It felt like my heart was shrinking, collapsing. What is this? Where is this coming from? I tried to approach this from a logical perspective and began to analyze the situation by having an internal conversation. You know the one, where the imaginary mini- me is on your shoulder giving you feedback. Breaking down was definitely not on my list. You do not have time for this, I told myself.

Fergie’s rendition of ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ interrupted my internal discourse. Trying to find something more upbeat, I frantically searched every pre-set station. One horribly chipped nail later, I settled on talk-radio. Much to my dismay, this did not solve the problem. However, I had to resolve it and quickly as I could hardly see for the water in my eyes. I could not break down in front of mom it would ruin everything. So, I exhaled and asked mom, ‘do you remember when you won that trip to Hawaii?’ Anything that happened over 20 years ago mom could recall with uncanny detail as it is only her short-term memory that is affected, for the most part. ‘Oh yeah,’ she responded. This led to a conversation about the old days.

Before I knew it I was smiling again. In fact I was laughing. I was well versed in the art of re-direction, only this time I was using it on myself. We continued on our journey and she continued telling me stories of old. We talked about recipes, careers, babies, old boyfriends all the things best friends would talk about on a road trip. Mom was an excellent storyteller.

In fact there wasn’t much mom couldn’t do. I took great pride in matching her against the younger moms of my friends. When she came to California in the early 60’s during the great migration she was a beautician and seamstress by day and an entrepreneur by night. She would bake pies, pastries and breads and sell them on her jobs. I have fond memories of the kitchen, the living room, the bathtub all filled with rising dough.

We were so engrossed in our recollections; I didn’t want to ruin the mood by carrying out my plan. But there was no escaping it. It was time. When we arrived, I checked in at the front desk and asked for assistance. The orderly came out and helped us carry in all the stuff. As we walked that long corridor to the secure facility in the back, I started to get that feeling again. Only this time it was stronger and I could not shake it. I busied myself with unpacking, labeling and organizing her drawers. I dressed her bed, hung her pictures of the family and the family calendar, and arranged the flowers.

The more I organized the more anxious I became. I wondered how the staff would handle her waking up in the middle of the night afraid and confused. Would she think I had abandoned her? And if so, would she cry? Would she hate me? Am I really doing the right thing? Could they really take care of her? While I was zoning out, mom must have sensed my anxiety (Moms always know) because she grabbed my hand. She looked me in the eyes and in a moment of clarity calmly reassured me. “I like it here. I’m sure I’ll be very happy here”. “Thanks mom”.

We said our goodbyes hugged and I left. When I got back to the car, I set about completing my list. I called different family members, most of whom were unavailable, so I left them a message. Mission accomplished. I had not gotten more than a quarter of a mile before I was crying.

I guess Fergie was wrong big girls do cry.