10 SR THE NEW YORK TIMES, SUNDAY, JUNE 28, 2020
DURHAM, N.H.M
Y MOTHER has vascular dementia. Her
brain, damaged from a slow decline in circula-
tion, has left her with memory loss.
At 81 years old, she can climb stairs and
sign her name. Knitting has fallen away, as has her use of
a spoon. She can count hay bales in the field but will want
to eat grain out of the horse’s bucket. She speaks in sen-
tences using a perfect pitch and emotion. While the words
are real, they are far from correct.
In the beginning, in 2015, she knew she was dying. She
was at first angry, then resigned. She asked me: “How can
I die? Can you help me die? Why am I losing my mind?”
But as her mind began to abandon her, those questions
ebbed.
In the late 1990s, my husband built an apartment addi-
tion onto our house where my mother has lived for dec-ades. The tomatoes she grew and canned fed us through-
out the winter. She sewed clothes for my children and sad-
dle pads for my horses. She drove cautiously, with snow
tires in the winter.
Now, my mother has no sense of consequences, no
boundaries. When we are at a bakery, she lunges at the
basket of rolls and grabs as many as she can. Sometimes
we will fold laundry together, dumping the mix of sheets
and socks on the kitchen table. If I run upstairs to put the
clothes away, she will dart to the pantry, breaking off one
banana after another. Sometimes she eats three bananas
in quick succession. Ten minutes later, she will look at the
remaining few and ask: “Can I have one of those?”
On the best days, her behavior is amusing. Her laugh is
so easy and contagious. She is effervescent and finds joy
in the smallest places.
My mother hasn’t cried in four years; tears are my re-lease. When she sways to a Dolly Parton song, I sob for
the person she was. Seeing this, she holds and comforts
me.
I began photographing my mother in April 2018, at the
suggestion of friends who thought my depression might
be lessened if I made work.
I picked up my iPhone and found a patch of morning
light in the living room. She blossomed, turning her face to
the sun. She seemed to enjoy the attention and the
process.
My mother doesn’t recognize her reflection, or her own
image. Most adults avoid having their picture made. My
mother is more childlike in that she has no concern.
With my camera, I document the joy and the light of her
last years of life — the ways that she circles back home,
even as she is leaving.The Beauty of My Mother’s Decline
Photographs and text by Cheryle St. Onge.Cheryle St. Onge is an artist and an educator.