Hindsight Healing: Making Peace with Mom's Diagnosis and My Own Expectations

Growing up, I always saw my mom as a superhero. She was my rock, my constant, my everything. I think most kids see their parents that way, even if they don't really realize it at the time. It's like this unspoken belief that they'll always be there, strong and invincible, ready to swoop in and save the day. But what happens when that illusion starts to crack?

When my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, it was like my whole world tilted on its axis. Suddenly, all the little things that I'd brushed off or explained away over the years started to make a sick kind of sense. The forgotten birthdays, the repeated stories, the times she'd call me manic about things that were so small they shouldn’t typically have such an intense impact on people - it all clicked into place like some twisted puzzle I never wanted to solve.

And with that realization came a tidal wave of guilt and self-loathing. I couldn't stop thinking about all the times I'd judged her, gotten impatient with her, or even just rolled my eyes behind her back. I felt like the worst daughter in the world, like I'd failed her in some fundamental way.

Looking back, I can see that a lot of my judgment and frustration was rooted in my own subconscious need for her to be perfect. I wanted her to be the mom I remembered from my childhood - the one who always had the answers, who could fix anything with a hug and a word of wisdom, who crafted with me, thrifted with me, would randomly stop by my apartment with freshly made meatloaf. I didn't want to face the reality that she was human, just like me, that she was in fact not untouched by the harsh circumstances of life.

But that's the thing about getting older. You start to realize that your parents are just people, flawed and fallible like everyone else. And when they start to decline, whether it's from Alzheimer's or just the natural aging process, it can be a really tough pill to swallow, no matter what age you are.

As you can imagine, watching my mom's decline has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do. There are days when I feel like I'm drowning in grief and anger and helplessness. I'm losing her a little bit at a time, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

But through all the pain and the heartache, I've also found moments of unexpected grace. Moments where the veil of guilt and regret lifts, and I'm able to see my mom for who she really is - not just the supermom from my memories, but a woman who's facing the biggest battle of her life (even if she doesn’t understand that she is anymore).

Those moments of clarity have given me a chance to process my own emotions and expectations. They've allowed me to look back on all the times I misunderstood her or judged her unfairly, and offer myself the same compassion and forgiveness that I'm learning to extend to her.

Because at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best we can with the cards we've been dealt. My mom isn't perfect, and neither am I. But we're in this together, navigating the twists and turns of this brutal disease as best we can. We aren’t facing it as a united front like we used to, because of the decline, but we’re still facing it… just in our own way.

Some days, that means sitting with her in silence, holding her hand and letting the tears flow. Other days, it means finding moments of joy and laughter in the midst of the chaos, like when we sing old church songs together, or flip through photo albums, sit at a park and listen to birds sing.

And on the really tough days, when the grief and the guilt threaten to swallow me whole, I'm learning to lean on the power of hindsight healing. To remind myself that I'm not alone in this, that countless other adult children have walked this path before me and come out the other side. Then, if reminding myself doesn’t help and the grace doesn’t come easily, then I cry. I let myself cry, let myself feel the pity, sadness, and shame for a moment, and then I get back to it.

So, to all the caregivers out there who are struggling to make peace with their parent's diagnosis and their own complicated emotions, I see you. I feel you. And I'm here to tell you that it's okay to be a mess sometimes. It's okay to grieve the loss of the fantasy, even as you cherish the reality in front of you.

Because this journey we're on? It's not for the faint of heart. It's raw and it's painful and it's messy as hell. But it's also a testament to the power of love and resilience in the face of unimaginable adversity.

So, keep going. Keep showing up, even when it hurts. Keep extending grace to yourself and your loved one, even when it feels impossible. And know that you're not alone, even on your darkest days.

Because together, we can find the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other. To keep loving and caring and fighting, even when the road ahead seems impossibly long. And to keep holding onto the hope that even in the midst of the most profound loss, there is still healing to be found.