I'm Sorry, Mama

I remember bragging about you, Mama.

In my little girl eyes, you were a hero. Even then, I knew that at your age, you were something special. Like most, if not all grandmothers, you had a brutal past, and that certainly morphed you into who you are, but I think it was primarily the attitude with which you faced those tribulations that made you this incredibly strong and fierce woman.

I inherited your dark curls. If I had embraced them my entire life, maybe they would be as beautiful as yours are. Those spirals of frizz and magnificence are a trademark of lost time to take care of your hair because the kids and grandkids are more important.

I remember your Cher tape cassettes, and I remember thinking how much you looked like her. The older I get, the more I think I look like her, too.

You made the best hot cocoa, and I solemnly swear that when I become a Mama one day, I will only serve my grandkids hot chocolate the way you made it.

As much as I strive to be like you, one thing I know for sure is that I will never be as strong as you are.

Because in 2015, when you were diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, to this day, I still cannot bring myself to face it.

I avoid it; I openly admit this and openly hate myself for it.

There is a disease inside of you that is murdering your precious brain cells, eating away at you each and every second, and while the rest of the family watches, my eyes are averted.

I don’t want to believe it. You were active your whole life. You ate as best you could. When I was born, you quit smoking because my mom made you put a blanket on your shoulder to prevent me from inhaling it. You haven’t picked up a cigarette since.

Papa passed away in 2012; I know it was because of that. Stress really does kill, and now I feel like, in a way, I've lost you, too.

You have been so patient, and I know that the aunts and my mom appreciate it. It is difficult for everyone, but it is far more difficult for you. Being aware that your brain and memory slips and that you are not mentally as pristine as you were just a mere two years ago must be debilitating. You declined so rapidly in such a short period of time, and I can only hope with all my might that you’ll be at my wedding one day. I need you to be there, Mama.

I sit here now in my puddle of pitiful tears, for the first time really letting them flow, wishing I could cope better with this, wishing that I could spend a day with you without breaking down because you deserve that from me. I owe it to you to be strong. I owe it to you to be there for you as much as possible.

You are not afraid like I am. You face this disease head on every day with a smile. I know you’ve had breakdowns before, and they would probably occur more often with anyone else. But you are not anyone else. You are my Mama. You are the strongest, most beautiful and benevolent creature to ever walk this earth.

We do not deserve you.

I am sorry, Mama. I’m sorry that I don’t devote nearly enough time to you. I’m sorry that this is an agonizing pain that I don’t know how to face. I’m sorry that such evils exist in this world and that one of the worst of them found its way into your brain.

If I could physically fight this disease, I would do so until it killed me.

I hope I can be strong for you, Mama. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been.