Dear strong, independent women, who constantly remind single, childless women like me that we don’t need to give birth, or carry a man’s last name to be whole, I often agree with you.  I even wrote that poem!  But tonight, is not one of those nights.  Tonight, I unashamedly say that I feel a brokenness which I believe, however misguided, can be mended only by cuddles with my own child, and a reassuring, uplifting embrace from a partner who is my cheerleader and best friend.

I think I just heard the collective gasp of feminists everywhere, but let me explain.

In exactly one week, I will be 41, and unlike virtually ALL of my friends, I have no children, and no eggs in a freezer anywhere.  I have no husband, no boyfriend, am not dating, and, I’m almost sure, that if asked to identify a penis in a lineup, I’d be unable to do so.

“What’s this bitch moaning about?” I’m sure some of you are thinking. “She just described a plethora of women on the damned planet.”  And you are correct.  But at 41, I am also currently the primary caregiver of my 94-year-old grandmother who sometimes has very little and often times no recollection of who I am.

I am the first grandchild of Cynthia Elaine Moore, a four-foot and change powerhouse of a woman who in her lifetime, embodied the word matriarch.  My gran was a teacher, a heroine who marched fiercely into lumber yards and demanded the best pieces of wood for her DIY projects.  By weekend you’d likely find her mixing concrete and laying bricks for her latest project, usually some new structure for her treasured flowers, plants and trees.  I often witnessed it when I spent my summers with her, and by lunch time, she’d be in the kitchen, adding the finishing touches to one of my favourite meals.  She’d often let me choose.  Weekdays, she could be found in the classroom, nurturing the children left in her care.  Teaching was, IS her pride and joy.  I say is, because it seems she never got the memo that she retired almost 35 years ago.  She still instructs EVERYONE!

My gran could do it all, so I certainly don’t need many words to explain exactly how heartbroken, yet, ironically, honoured, I am to watch her transition from this existence.  Tonight, however, was thus far, the most frightening and painful, as I watched her breathing become labored and her face contorted, a look I’ve coined “The Death Face”.  You may convince yourself that you’re okay with the passing of a loved one, but when the finality of death is staring you in the face, few things in life are more heartbreaking.

Tonight, as I watched her chest heave, I got on my knees, held her, and with my face buried in her stomach, I wept like a child, begging her not to leave.  Somehow, I’d forgotten the infinite conversations I had with myself about how transitioning from this existence of being a mere shadow of her former self would be sweet relief for her.

But, tonight was not her night.  She is, at this moment, resting peacefully in bed.  And I am sitting in mine, wondering what tomorrow will hold.

Every day is a new adventure.  Each time I leave a room, I’m on tenterhooks, wondering which person will greet me when I reenter.  Will it be a sweet, little, old lady who greets me with a cheer, or the abusive devil who berates me, a stranger, for coming into her home without permission?

I liken my life at present, to the movie 50 First Dates, except, there is no love story, and no Prince Charming to whisk me away.

Caring for a loved one with dementia is all-consuming.  I spend hours on end locked in my room, tiptoeing as quietly as possible, because, within seconds of seeing me, she forgets that I am here, and it’s easier not to remind her that I am.  And as stressful as it is just to sneak around the house, dashing and tiptoeing in and out of rooms when she’s not looking or has taken a quick nap, the most painful moments for me are when I lose my cool.  It’s not always easy to turn a deaf ear when she verbally abuses me.  Sometimes, I answer back.  But no sooner do the words leave my mouth than I despise myself for saying them.

Yesterday, she emphatically stated, “You are a foolish bitch!”

How this word has become a favourite in the vocabulary of a woman who never swore and always insisted I speak the Queen’s English is a mystery to me.  But yesterday, while recovering from the flu and feeling quite miserable, my filter failed me, and I retorted, “and you are a foolish bitch too!”

I recoiled immediately after the words left my mouth.

“What if these are the last words you say to your gran,” I asked.  And, “why are you being mean to someone who has no idea what she is doing or saying?”

It is in these moments that I most want to curl into a ball and cry because I feel like a worthless failure.  It is in these moments that I long to feel the little arms of my own child circling my neck saying, “I love you mommy,” or the much larger arms of my partner embracing me, imbuing me with the strength to carry on.

And, in the rare moments alone, those few minutes when gran has drifted off to sleep and I’m waiting to drift off myself, the thought which haunts me most is this.  Alzheimer’s is hereditary.  I notice, and am mortified by the fact that I am becoming increasingly forgetful.  Someday, the old lady pacing her house with constantly diminishing memories of her life and self could be me, except, there will be no one to tuck me in and keep watch over me at night.