The budding entomologist would want to know what kind of caterpillar is crossing the road. The psychologist would want to know why the caterpillar is crossing the road. The engineer would examine the chip-sealed highway surface. Anyone who lives on the Lower Cambridge Road would say that this image does not fairly portray the condition of the road (i.e. no potholes). The Baptist would want to know if the caterpillar has been, or will be, saved. The tenor wouldn't see anything in this image except his own reflection off the computer screen, then he'd tell you about his last seventeen triumphant performances. Clichés, all of them.
The caterpillar likely has one thing on his mind: food.
What do I see? I see the long road. I see my mother. It was approximately eight years ago that Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I don't think any of us really knew what to expect when the diagnosis was confirmed. In the early days it was mostly just a gentle forgetfulness, punctuated by simple 'mistakes'. We didn't have much of a sense for the anger, delusions, aggression (Judy!) or, oddly enough, the humour that would pave the road to where we are today.
And where are we today?
Today the road seems long. Not forbidding, just long. I can remember our early travels. In 2005 we flew to Maui for a family vacation. Alzheimer's didn't really travel with us. In 2007 we ventured to California for Christmas. Alzheimer's packed a bag but never really got out of the suitcase. Our travels became continually more dicey as the years progressed. I think it was 2011 when I drove to Halifax with Mom to retrieve Julian. It was nothing short of a miracle that we made it there and back unscathed. A few months later it was anyone's guess if we could get Mom to and from the hospital, or the Keswick bakery, without some speed bumps. Occasionally Mom would attempt to exit the car while we were driving, or balk at getting out when necessary. The long road.
My last two visits with Mom were such that I'm not convinced that she recognized me. Thankfully I don't struggle with that because I recognize her and that's all that matters. It's a long road and there is no map. We're driving into the cloudy twilight. It's inevitable. It's been like that for while now, though the clouds often part and Mom comes beaming through, albeit muted, with a few gifted rays of sunshine: a playful growl, a wink, a smile.
She's giving us all she's got, and that's what she's done for as long as she's been my mother <sorry, I should have said 'me Mootha'!> It doesn't take much to make us forget where we've been or where we're headed. Life must be lived in the moment: there is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow. There is, most certainly, a long road and we're on it today. Together. Maybe we're all just legs on the same body, heading down the road.
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