Fake Identity / Theft Protection

Priming

In 2006, my mom and I both experienced our own form of identity crisis. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. I acknowledged I am gay.

Even though I’ve had five years to sort out how I came to discover my orientation, explaining it to others remains a difficult conversation. I imagine it’s the whole heterosexual marriage part that throws most people off. The Cliff Notes version goes like this: I realized early in life I had some feelings that were different. No one, including myself, seemed to regard these feelings as anything other than bad. I thought it best for everyone if I locked them away in a small box.

Encoding

I used to think Alzheimer’s was a disease of memory loss. It’s so much worse. Victims of Alzheimer’s forget themselves, their mannerisms, their personality, and those characteristics that make them who they are. Over time, I watched as little pieces of Mom slipped away. It first became evident in how she decorated and kept house. Then I noticed she began dressing differently. Whereas previously she was known for her panache for fashion and her ability to put outfits together, the selections she made – while not blatantly mismatched – were noticeably not her. She didn’t fuss over the nuances of her appearance. She stopped painting her nails as regularly. Her makeup coloring wasn’t quite right. Her recipes didn’t taste the same. She wasn’t as feisty or outgoing.

Not long after moving into assisted living, she became unable to attend to the habits so ingrained that they seemed part of her being. There were times when I found myself painting her nails, helping her with makeup (which I knew nothing about), and fixing her hair. The first time I painted her nails she commented what a good job I’d done and that she couldn’t wait to show the workers and other residents. “No, do not say a word about this, Mom!” I said sternly. Either she forgot or ignored me; before I knew it she was out in the hall with an audience showing off my work. “Wow, you’re really good! You should go into business!” the circle of ladies exclaimed. I enthusiastically insisted that I didn’t know about such things. Apparently, I should have centered my words around my absolute lack of desire, because they countered with the comforting news that a lot of men go into the cosmetics industry today and that I shouldn’t be ashamed to do it. I mustered a half-hearted thanks and collected Mom for her doctor’s appointment. As we walked down the hall, my courtesy smile fell away.

It wasn’t the ladies, the compliments, or the suggestion of a career change that made me ill inside; it was how it all came about. Regardless of how “sweet” it was that I’d helped Mom get ready, I only saw the fact that she was unable to do it herself. This was nothing to laugh over. I wanted to bring all the laughing to an abrupt end and make them realize that pieces of my mother were slipping away right in front of me. I wanted them to see her in context of my lifelong memories and understand the absurdity of it all – that my mom needed no one’s help to paint her nails with unrivaled precision. She could do it with her eyes closed.

Without the need of a conscious effort, I began to disassociate my mom from the person being left behind. Though it may sound cold or dispassionate, it was a way of coping that made sense to me. I loved and care for her the same but held harmless my remembrances, locked them away in small box.

Recollection

After I had made peace with myself over my sexual orientation, I felt it important to share with my mom before it was too late for her to understand. She’d moved into assisted living earlier that year and while her short term memory was poor, she was still herself. One would think being her caregiver would have made this process easier, but it did not. I sat on the bed in her room, looked down often, danced around the subject by asking questions, and finally came out with it. She nodded and said, “Okay.” Questioning her comprehension, “Mom, did you understand me?” “Yes, I understand perfectly. I’m glad you told me, and I love you.” We hugged.

The next day we traveled to visit my grandmother. Not a word was exchanged about our previous conversation. I mentioned something about dating and looked for acknowledgement from her. When all I got was a silent nod, I began the process of coming out for the second time, which was a little easier than the first. After I was done, she nodded much like the first time. Then she said, “Okay. But didn’t you tell me this just yesterday?”

This post is part of a synchronized blogging project called The Creative Collective – a group of artists, bloggers, and writers who post on a particular topic every two weeks. This week’s topic was “Identity Crisis” Read more posts on this topic at http://synchrobloggers.wordpress.com/2011/10/18/identity-crisis/

Advertisement