What do we tell the kids?

A friend said something priceless to me about reading this blog: "Just reading about her made me want to be a better mother, to cherish every minute I have with [my son] and count it as a blessing and to have yet more patience with him."

First, I'm thrilled that these writings have any kind of effect on anyone. But more importantly, it made me realize that this whole mess has actually made me a better mother, too. What if I've inherited this awful disease, and it kicks in soon? I'm 44 already. I've heard stories about folks coming down with it at 48, abominably.

So I've tended more to the little things since getting the awful news about my mom. I'm more patient. I read to the kids, something I was too lazy to do after they gained a certain level of competency. I'm a better daughter, too; I call my mom more often; I try to humor my dad's OCD.


A week or two ago I arrived at the point at which I started considering how to tell my own primary-school-age kids about Mom's illness. My partner wanted to let it ride, as is his common response to many things in life, but I didn't think it quite fair. I'm taking advantage of knowing by getting every last hug in, by showering my mom with treats. Why should my kids be denied any chance to remember Nana as they knew her?


One of my daughters in particular was very attached to Mom, almost bizarrely so -- would coo and smile in her presence and, later, have hysterics when Mom left. It made me think she imprinted to her as an infant, or whatever the heck they call it -- Mom sure held the kid enough. They're not as close now; my parents moved down south and the kids have many pursuits competing for their attention. But still, I wondered how she would react.

In the end, I wimped out a little. "Nana's sick," I said. "Haven't you noticed she's not really herself lately? And you know how she used to steal your candy? That's because her brain isn't working quite right." I stopped short of talking about the death sentence frontal lobe dementia really is. One kid took it quite well; the other, the close one, was upset, but only for a few minutes.

Which made me upset. I know they're too young to appreciate the gravity of what's going down, but I hope they will realize, someday, the preciousness of what they have lost. I don't dwell on it, though. I just nudge them over for one extra hug when Nana comes to visit.