The written loom

Today is supposed to be a PO Box 49 day..

A letter day..
The kind of day when I walk to the post office, slide envelopes across the counter, and feel that small, quiet joy of paper traveling somewhere beyond me..

But this time, PO Box 49 is being gently stolen..

Stolen by this letter..

I’ve been sick for over a week now. The kind of cold that doesn’t just keep you from work, but it keeps you from the post office too.. And that, somehow, feels symbolic.. As if my usual rhythm has been paused on purpose..

When the body slows you down, the mind begins wandering..

With more time than usual, I opened my profile on Substack yesterday and began reading. Not methodically. Not strategically. Just wandering from profile to profile..

And then I opened a piece about dementia..

I don’t know why I clicked on it.. .. or.. Actually, I do..

My mother has Alzheimer’s and and I am her primary caregiver.

So I left a comment..

And as if something invisible shifted, every article that followed felt connected.. Different countries.. Different systems.. Financial procedures.. Hospice.. Emotional reflections.. Caregiver confessions..

It felt like stepping into a hidden corridor..

Suddenly I felt two opposite truths at once: I am not alone in this… And.. I am alone in this..

I gathered ideas..
I cried quietly..
I copied phrases into my journal..

I felt heavier and lighter at the same time..

How Many Versions Can One Person Become?

I found myself wondering: How many stages can dementia truly have? How many personalities can it wear? How many times can you meet your own mother as a stranger?

I read an article that said something like: “You have about seven months from diagnosis. What should you do.”

Seven months!!! ??? !!! as if .. REALLY now???? As if grief should move aside for paperwork..

You begin legal steps..
Financial adjustments..
Protective systems..
Signatures.. Passwords.. Decisions..

You step into your parent’s private world, their accounts, their routines, their autonomy..

And they look at you with confusion.. with Suspicion!! As if you have taken something from them.. And perhaps you have..

It comforted me to see that many of the practical things I have already done are considered necessary.. That I am on a “normal” road..

But emotionally? I am still not “There”.. 

How do you say “Mom” when you’re not sure she fully knows who you are?

And yet.. I brush her hair.. I braid it.. We sit and watch everything from The Smurfs, to travel documentaries.. Sometimes she laughs.. Sometimes we sit in silence..

I keep writing in my journal, not to document decline, but to remember presence..

Not Every Day Is Sad

I want to say this clearly.. Not every day is painful nor heavy..

These are days of awakening.. Days that remind me who I am becoming.. Days that show me how deep love can go, even without recognition..

There is joy too.. Joy that she is still here.. However she is, she is here!

And that is not small..

So today, PO Box 49 is quiet.. No envelope will leave my hands.. But this letter travels anyway.. To whoever needs to feel something..

And if you are walking this path too, You are not alone.. And you are..

Tatiana,