Walking with Mom

As I walked the trail through the Death Valley badlands from Zabriskie Point to Golden Canyon, I thought of my mom. More than thought of, I felt her with me. The nearly one year anniversary of her passing would be two month and three days, May 13th. You’ve heard of death by 1000 cuts; loosing a person to dementia is death by 1000 turns of the brain. Each turning I lost a little bit more of my beloved mother. Dementia began its twisting just before my mom turned 60, nearly twenty years before her death at 77. Her decline was a Grand Canyon of a journey. Her death, just one month on the heels of my dad’s passing, felt no different than the many losses of my mother I had already experienced, just more final. 

This cool, March morning, I walked alone through the stark beauty of Death Valley. It was early enough that I didn’t meet anyone on the path. The crunch of my boots and the occasional raven caw were the only sounds in that silent, rocky land. I felt more quintessentially myself than I had in a long time. In Nepal I walked long distances by myself almost daily. This year I had gotten into good enough hiking shape to keep a steady pace and to feel the strength of my body and soul as I wound through the magnificent badlands. 

As I hiked, I kept trying to draw my attention to the present; the reds, greens, and rusts streaking the hills, the snow-covered mountains in the distance, the well-worn footpath. But the quiet space of this ancient land relaxed me and my mind wandered back to Mom. What would she think about this journey Dwayne and I were on? The story of my family is that my mom did not like my adventures. There was some truth to that. She was mightily worried when I went to Nepal. But, I believe that my mom’s resistance ended there. Nepal taught her that I was better for that time, and that was good enough for her. She just wanted her kids to be happy. She would have enjoyed this trip. Mom loved to walk. I think the up and down of these hills would have hurt her lungs, but she would have loved the beauty of this place.

Quicker than expected, I had crossed the badlands and was at a fork in the trail. Turn right to hike out to a canyon called Red Cathedral or left to join the Golden Canyon trail exiting to the trailhead. I decided to extend my hike and turn right. Soon I was scrambling over rocks and squeezing through narrow passages. And then the rocks opened up to a stunning red-walled canyon. I saw how it got it’s name: the still space felt like a sacred grotto. 

I was still alone, so I found a place to sit and consider how to pay tribute to Mom. My mother was a devout Catholic, and I thought she’d appreciate a tribute in a place named after a cathedral. Ironically, though she was Catholic, she taught me more about the value of the present than any Buddhist I met. She paid attention to what was right in front of her, could care less about big ideas or grand plans for the future. As long as her family was good, she was happy.

That’s what she always told me, much to my annoyance when I was young and full of myself. I would exclaim, “Mom, what else do you want? You can do more than this!” But she was intractable. Every time I tried to push her to want more, she would stop me by saying, “Come on, Ca. Let’s not worry about all that. Let’s go for a walk.” For my mom the cure for anything was a good walk. And we went on many together.

As the grip of dementia tightened, my mother forgot our names and then us. Even though she didn’t know me, I am certain she knew she loved me. I remember one time we were on an elevator together and she turned to me and said, “I don’t know why, but I feel very close to you.” I hugged her and said in a voice I hoped was cheerful enough to cover my sadness, “well, are you lucky because I’m your daughter.” “Oh! Are you?” she exclaimed. She smiled wide, as if I’d given her the greatest gift in the world. “I knew it. I knew I had a family.” She had forgotten who I was by the time we got out of the elevator, but in that brief moment she was exalted. As I remembered that moment, I had a realization.

Sitting on a rock in the Red Cathedral the narrative of my mother shifted like the tectonic plates that lifted these hills ages ago. The story I had been telling myself of my mother was all wrong. In fact, the story I’d been telling of the reason for this trip was all wrong too. I had been telling myself and others we were going on this trip to honor my parents because they never got to live their dreams. But those distant unrealized dreams were Dad’s, not Mom’s. While Mom would have loved to have seen her grandchildren grow into the beautiful adults they are all headed to be, and 58 was young to begin the slow decline into dementia, she had experienced everything she ever wanted. She had lived a full life.

I stood up from the rock I was sitting on and slowly turned around the canyon as I let this realization sink in. This trip wasn’t for her, but for me. I thought I had lost my mom and my best friend long before she died, but during this year-long amble around the West, my mom has been coming back into focus. If I could talk to the smug college kid who was so determined to help Mom find meaning in some far-off dreams, I’d tell my twenty-something kid that she had it wrong too. My mother knew perfectly well what she wanted. Mom had found meaning right in front of her, every single day of her life. Even with early dementia, she lived a fully realized life; she loved, laughed, and found joy in simple pleasures. Most importantly to her, she was beloved and she knew it.

In the silence of Red Cathedral I found my mom again. I only needed to listen. She is inside me saying, “Come on, Ca. Let’s go for a walk.”