Each year I give my mom, who has Alzheimer's, a calendar she can't use
When so much else about our relationship has changed, this gift provides purpose, comfort and hope
This First Person article is the experience of Nicole Robichaud, a lawyer and caregiver in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I no longer remember who first gifted my mom a folk art calendar nearly 30 years ago — perhaps she had even selected it herself. All I know is that every year at Christmas, someone in our family has given her the same one.
Growing up in Toronto, the holidays had always been a happy time for my parents, brother and me. Though the tree would be surrounded by gifts, my mom seemed to particularly love this art calendar gift. I remember in the months following she would take the time to admire each colourful painting, with her favourite being December's festive snow-filled scenes.
In 2015, at age 68, my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Twenty years prior, she had helped her own father through this disease, so she knew what likely lay ahead for her.
But apart from some frustration at forgetting certain words or tasks in those early days, she stayed positive and did her best to remain cheerful.
As the years passed, the disease progressed. My parents moved to a retirement home in Ottawa close to me in 2017. When my father passed away, mom moved to the memory care floor. In 2021, now confined to a wheelchair, she moved into a smaller suite.
The calendar, of course, always followed.
By this time, my mom was often delusional and could no longer feed herself. But we tried to appreciate the small moments of humour, such as when she believed the Queen was visiting and she gleefully told me that the Queen even knew her name!
I knew by then that mom's ability to use or understand the calendar had long passed. Eventually, she could no longer even admire the pictures.
These days, I often find my mom sleeping, awake with her eyes closed, or staring vacantly, with an unknown illusory world going on in her head. For me, this stage is the hardest.
Still, I continue to order the calendar each year. And as I ordered it as my first Christmas shopping purchase this year, I started to ponder why.
When I visit mom now, I no longer know what to do. What does one do visiting a loved one who is immobile, often asleep, largely unresponsive to words or touch?
I realized the calendar gives my visits a sense of purpose. Each month I turn the page and show her the picture, reminding her how much she always loved it and talking about how lovely the scene is.
In previous years, she would indicate her agreement, but even that is no longer possible. I show mom the picture and she stares blankly.
Despite this, giving this gift still feels important.
It is one of the few aspects of our relationship that has not changed through the years. Though we can no longer chat or go shopping together as we once did, it is a comfort to know we can share this one tradition.
But perhaps the biggest reason I still give it is that I believe on some level my mom still knows the love that went into this gift, and appreciates my desire to connect with her and remind her of family traditions.
By filling her living space with something she once loved, I also hope I am creating a comforting energy around her, making it feel like home to her. I believe people can sense and be affected by such things even if not consciously aware.
Mundane though it might seem, the calendar has become a vehicle for me to express my spiritual beliefs — that people are more than their body and mind, with a perception beyond the physical.
Faced with a sad disease where so much seems out of our control, the calendar is my own way of making the best of things and provides purpose, comfort and hope. I look forward to changing the page to 2024.
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