You're 70 years old!
It's quite an accomplishment to make it to 70.
How does it feel?
Do you know?
Do you know that you're officially a septuagenarian?
Do you remember your birthday?
I worry you don't.
Because I know your brain hasn't been working properly for at least 10 years.
Do you remember that your own father was in a nursing home at the end of his life and that he didn't recognize your mother, to whom he was married for 50 years?
Dementia runs in our family.
But so does denial.
It's your coping mechanism.
I get it.
I wish I could ignore the fact that you choose to ignore your health.
I wish I could ignore the fact that my own child has numerous neurological disorders.
I wish I could change a lot of things for both of you.
But I'm not capable of fixing either one of you.
I can do my best to help you.
And him.
But you're an adult.
Turning into a child.
Whereas my son is a child turning into an adult.
Who will likely never live on his own.
Never truly be independent.
I know now why you haven't been to visit me and my family for 12 years.
Why you've never met my younger son.
He'll be 10 years old at the end of this month.
The last time you were in my home, my older son was 10 months old.
He'll be 13 in September.
Do you know that?
Probably not.
Because you don't even know us.
Because you live in a State of Denial.
It's too overwhelming for you to travel.
It's too overwhelming for you to look me in the eye and acknowledge that your grandson is a lovely boy who doesn't live up to your unattainable expectations of perfection.
He is disabled.
It's too overwhelming for you to look me and my husband in the eye and acknowledge that, even though I asked you and Dad several times to come visit us over the years, including in 2015 when I was going through breast cancer treatments, fighting for my life, you didn't come.
And here I thought, because I was told, that you and Dad always had my back.
That you'd always support me.
Nope.
And here I thought that, if your kid gets a cancer diagnosis, you get on a plane and you go to where ever they are, because, ultimately, I'm still your kid.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
That seizure disorder diagnosis that you received in September 2018?
Probably related to your dementia.
But maybe not.
When I talked to my son's pediatric neurologist about your diagnosis, and told him the medication your on, he explained that it's impossible to know if the dementia is caused by the seizures, or the seizures is caused by the dementia.
It's a classic "chicken or egg" thing.
And, Dad?
Poor Dad.
I know he put off his retirement because he knew his retirement wasn't going to go as he anticipated.
I know he anticipated traveling.
Maybe even up to see me and my husband and our boys.
Nope.
I know he anticipated being able to take his woodworking career and turn it into a hobby.
He made a desk for my Little Brother.
And a gigantic clock for us.
But his work has been caring for you.
And raising a Golden Retriever puppy.
Having a puppy right now is fucking insane.
I'm sorry your older Golden died unexpectedly and traumatically.
But why in the goddamn did you guys agree to get a puppy?
Whatever.
Not my problem.
You guys are adults.
You made your decisions.
I just wish you guys would stop and think about your own futures.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Do you remember that my dear friend and I flew down from Washington to Arizona about this time three years ago?
Because I needed to see for myself what was going on.
It was about six weeks before my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 tonsil cancer.
Do you remember that you and I went to breakfast alone?
That I told you the story of how I found my lump on a breast self-exam. That I ended up having breast cancer. And how I advocated for my own health when I was a cancer patient?
Do you remember?
That I pleaded with you to please get the help you needed and deserved?
That I got home and printed off information about the care you could receive at the University of Arizona from their program on senior citizens?
Because you and Dad aren't on the Web.
Because you guys told me over twenty years ago that "the Internet is a fad."
Because you both live in a State of Denial.
Consequently, you guys have no idea how the current world works.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
I hope you like the quilt I made for you and Dad.
I put a label on the bottom left corner on the back side.
And included the date I created it.
To help you remember.
But do you think it's a new quilt every time you walk in the room and see it?
Did you hang it up?
Or are you using it as a blanket?
Either way.
I anticipate that you'll fold it up and put it in a corner and forget about it.
I anticipate that you will not hang it up.
I know you had the interior of your home painted about five years ago, and that you don't want to re-hang the photos and artwork because you don't want to put holes in the walls.
Weird.
But whatever.
It's your home.
Your decisions.
But don't worry.
I'll suck it up and drag my entire family to Arizona for my Little Brother's wedding in November.
I'll start training my kids in April about how to get on an airplane.
We're taking a major field trip to the Museum of Flight.
And I also found this awesome program, called Wings for Autism.
Here, watch this 6 minute video, which explains the program.
And what my family will do.
What I'll put them through because I love my Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé.
Because they love us.
And we love them.
And this is what we do for people that we love.
Because, seriously, how long has it been since our family had something beautiful and delightful happen?
How long has it been since we could all be together and be happy?
How long since we celebrated?
I don't remember.
And even though My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé gave me, my husband, and our kids a free pass...and told me that because of everything we deal with...if we are unable to make it to their wedding, they completely understand...and will not be offended.
Nope.
We're making plans to descend upon the desert in the fall.
Because, ultimately, this is likely to be the only opportunity you will be given to meet my boys.
To have an inkling of what my life is like.
To see me as a parent.
Who knows...between your neurological disorders and my son's neurological disorders, maybe the two of you will become as thick as thieves.
At the very least, you'll both enjoy listening to The Beatles.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
I love you.
Love,
Rachel
xoxo
