Mending

A few months back I did some sewing for Isabelle. Nothing too complicated. I took in a couple of dresses along the side seams. Isabelle is thin and dresses that are the right length are often too big around. I wasn’t sure how well it would work on these particular dresses, one had an overlay, but both turned out great.

This isn’t the first time I’ve mended for Isabelle, but it is the first time her mom sent over something for me to work on. Apparently Isabelle told her I could fix it. And I was happy to give it a shot.

Before I got started I turned both dresses inside out and had Isabelle put them on so I could pin them along the seam where I wanted to sew. I put several pins, pointy side out, in my mouth to hold them while I slowly started pinning along the seam.

And I was instantly taken back.

I cannot tell you how many times I stood just like Isabelle was standing, arms up, looking down watching my mom with pins in her mouth, as she pinned beside a seam. The way she would guide me in a turn as she finished around the length of a hem. The way she mumbled directions to me around the pins poking out from her lips.

I do not have the sewing skills my mom does. But I have a sewing machine that my mom bought me years ago, and I do know my way around curtains, pillow cases, and most mending projects. I’ve been putting darts in my pants for years. My mom taught me all of that.

As I sat on the edge of the couch that day, pins in my mouth, looking up at Isabelle, I felt like a real mom. I used to imagine making curtains for a nursery. A cover for a changing table. I never got to do those things. But here I was. Sewing for my stepdaughter. And it was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

My relationship with my mom has transitioned into something very different in the last few years as her dementia has changed the person she is. She is NOT the same mom I had most of my life. She is not the rock solid, “I can do anything”, go to person that she was for most of my life. Her memory comes and goes. Mostly goes. She isn’t terribly reasonable. And I think she spends much of the time feeling a little afraid. I think it scares her when she can’t remember things she’s always known. How to do things she’s always done.

For a while our daily conversations got pretty unpleasant. She seemed angry all the time. That isn’t my mom.

The day after I fixed Isabelle’s dresses I called my mom and took a new approach. I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t ask her about her day or what she’d eaten or whether she had taken her medicine. Instead, I just told her my sewing story.

I described in detail how I’d fixed Isabelle’s dresses. She was so proud of me. She had no idea that I knew how to sew. Didn’t remember that she had bought my sewing machine. So I told her all about it. And then I told her about some of the projects she made for me growing up.

I reminded her of when she taught me to make some skirts while I was in college. We didn’t have much money for clothes when I began student teaching. So we bought a pattern for a skirt. And she watched over me while I made several variations of that skirt in different fabrics. It was a bargain.

This spring break as we get ready to go camping, our little camper has needed some repairs. I started camping with Mom and John in this camper in high school. A few years ago, after Matt and I had borrowed it a few times, she gave it to us. It is far from fancy, but the price was right.

Every time we take it out we make some adjustments. Alterations. Upgrades. This week I decided to tackle some tears in the vinyl.

I pulled out a needle and some upholstery thread and got to work. It took me about ten minutes to realize that I didn’t have the right tools. The needle I was using was tearing up my fingers and I couldn’t maneuver it easily in the space. I realized I needed an upholstery needle.

I have never owned an upholstery needle. I had a vague idea of what one looked like. But I’d never used one. But sometime long ago Mom and I had conversations about repairing seat covers and furniture. She’d described the unique shape of and use for an upholstery needle. So I went and bought one.

Today, armed with my new curved needle, I fixed the pulls along some seams in the camper. The stitching isn’t beautiful. But it is functional. Rain and bugs won’t be entering through those spots in the camper. But more importantly, the seams won’t get worse.

I called my mom while I was working. Described what I was doing. The shape of the needle. She couldn’t remember exactly what they looked like. Didn’t remember ever using one. But she sure enjoyed hearing about my project.

The hardest part of dementia is mourning a person who is still here. But also gone.

I don’t talk to Mom about the master schedule anymore. I don’t talk to her about school too much at all. She gets frustrated with her own lack of understanding about things she knows she should know. I miss that camaraderie based on our shared love of education.

I miss my mom. Who she was. Even as I adjust to our new relationship. And stop to appreciate the sweet moments we still have. I miss her.

But I’m blessed by her legacy.