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Sarah: “It was fun, wasn’t it, Mom?”
Midge, frowning: “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
It’s hard enough for a daughter to witness this in her mother, but it’s crueler still when the disease rips into a family so soon, upsetting the order of things, turning children into caretakers when they still need care themselves. Leavitt portrays the closeness of her relationship with her mother with punch and tenderness.
“God I loved her hands,” she writes early on. “She bit her nails and her veins stuck out all blue and lumpy. They weren’t pretty hands. They were strong hands. Mom hands.”
But as the disease progresses, Leavitt gives full voice to her own amalgam of confusion, embarrassment, fury and despair. She recalls one of her weekly phone conversations with her parents, when her mother asked her father to leave the room and then railed against him and the world: “I’m a NOBODY! I’m not a REAL PERSON anymore!”
Leavitt writes: “Then she started crying really hard. I decided to pretend she wasn’t my mother so I could manage to stay on the phone and listen to her.” She does, soothing her mother for an hour or so, acting the grown-up. And then when they hang up, Leavitt draws herself prone on the floor, kicking her arms and legs like a child, and screaming, “I want my Mommy!”
Such honesty makes this memoir engrossing and believable. But it also raises the ethical questions that must be asked of any graphic depiction of an Alzheimer’s patient. This is an ugly disease. Midge Leavitt had no control of her bodily functions, undressed at the most inopportune times, said outlandish and hurtful things and acted like a crazy woman.
Yet it was not possible for her to give her consent to this picture of herself. Was Leavitt justified in portraying her mother in such an undignified way? Personally, I couldn’t do it. The few times I wrote about my mother before or after she died, I censored myself heavily, not wishing to publicize the uglier aspects of her behavior.
This is not so much a criticism of “Tangles” as it is a troubled observation, one that I hope Leavitt pondered and discussed with her family before sharing her story with the world.
That concern is tempered by the undeniable love and respect that Leavitt had for her mother. It courses through the story, sustaining her at times of despair, and shaping the mourning that came after her death as well as before it. Though not religiously observant, Leavitt decided to say Kaddish every day for 11 months, reciting the mourner’s prayer on her own.
“I made the Kaddish into my own prayer, my time I spent with her every night,” she writes, depicting herself kneeling on the floor, head to the ground, draped in a shawl with her arms outstretched. “The words of the Kaddish and the cloth against my skin and the solidity of the floor against my forehead comforted me every night.”
As, in the end, this book will comfort any of us who have had to take this journey.
Jane Eisner is the editor-in-chief of the Forward.