Two weeks ago, I went to court for the very first time. Ever. I think I’ve been lucky in that way. I’ve never been to traffic court or divorce court or small claims court or any of that jazz. So many of my friends have had to deal with legal issues and I feel for you all.

I was pretty nervous before getting to probate court but happy to have my sister with me. She can talk your ear off about anything, which is a GREAT distraction. Thanks, Bon. 🙂  We were both feeling pretty confident that everything would turn out ok, but you never know, right?  But thankfully, it really was ok. The judge asked a few questions, I answered them with my sister having to prompt me once because I couldn’t think, and then it was done. Now Jack (or anyone) cannot take Mom from the safe place where she’s at. *big sigh of relief*

Afterwards, my sister and I went to Mom’s house to look for some photos and cookbooks. It was really, really weird. It’s one thing when someone has passed away and you’re looking through their things, reminiscing, and figuring out what to do with everything. But what about when your loved one is in a home and very much alive? We felt…sneaky. I tried not to cry multiple times (didn’t always succeed) because it just felt wrong, pawing through our mother’s things. And yes, good things did come out of it. We found photos we didn’t even know existed, so now we can scan them and give everyone, including Mom, copies. I found a few bags of clothing I ended up washing and taking to Mom, as well as more winter clothing for later on. So it wasn’t really wrong….but it felt it.

As we were going through some of Mom’s kitchen cupboards, both my sister and I talked out loud to our brother, cursing at him for not being there. Calling him an asshole for leaving us with this job, but laughing when we said it. We reminisced about so many good times. Weird items like a certain bowl or nutcracker or even Tupperware would spark memories and stories in us both. It was odd and unsettling in some ways, but a bit cathartic at times.

What really got me was the jar we found in my mother’s closet. Twelve years ago, I made her a jar of memories for Mother’s Day. Each slip of paper was a different memory I had of her and the note attached to the jar was me telling her I couldn’t wait to make more memories with her. It was before I ever got pregnant, before I got to see her be a Grammy to my boy, before she ever showed signs of Alzheimers.

But she kept the jar. It may have been in her closet, but she kept it. I’m not sure why I got so emotional about it. Either it was because of the fact she kept the jar or it was because it was foreshadowing of the future or that I felt this weird moment of rightness. Like I made her something kind of cool and it was something a photo album couldn’t capture–moments in our lives that I wanted to remember and hoped she’d remember, too. But it also showed my love and admiration and respect for her. I guess I was glad we found it because it was proof to myself that I did show my mother how much I cared for her.

Having to place Mom in a facility didn’t feel like I was showing her my love, although I suppose it really was. It just didn’t feel like it at the time. But now when I visit her each Saturday, she’s happy and funny and more like herself than she’s been in ages. Of course her memory is still deteriorating. When we went through some photos just yesterday, she thought a few pictures of me was really my cousin, and she didn’t recognize her second husband in a few photos. I found myself saying who everyone was before she could identify them or not be able to identify them. Maybe I was trying to save myself some heartache? I don’t know. I’ll have to find out what I really should do. Label the photos? Let Mom try to figure out who they are? Put them in chronological order? I have some research to do, I guess.

In the meantime, my visits with Mom will continue (always with coffee and treats) and we’ll have as many good times as we still can. Mom loves to talk about the other residents, who she thinks is sweet and kind and who she thinks is nuts. Mom’s sense of humor is still as great as ever, and we always laugh a lot when we visit. Those are the moments when she still feels like my mom. And as long as we can still laugh, then all hope is not lost, right?

Absolutely. ❤