Who we are depends greatly on who we’re with. We work hard to maintain the ruse we spin for those around us. But what if you lose control over your persona and the one that surfaces is beyond your control?

We all have alter egos, the persona we present to others. It’s based on how we want to be perceived. Some people craft simple personas while others mask fear and anxiety behind a smile. And still more strive to be genuine, devoid of falsehood. Nothing is more exhausting than the effort to maintain this façade.

My brother and I once mused that our mother and her sister, the first two in the family, were merely two sides of the same person. I joked our Aunt was Bruce Banner and Mom was the Hulk. It had more to do with how intellectual we saw our Aunt and how chaotic Mom came across to those who were close to her. The Hulk isn’t evil, just reactive to stimuli, misunderstood, and without impulse control. Over time we realized the comparison wasn’t that simple nor as accurate.

Mom’s alter ego was one of confidence and helplessness. She didn’t understand how most things worked, but defiantly soldiered on through a situation with the help of her children and friends. For Mom if she didn’t understand something, or couldn’t accomplish it on her own, she comfortably reached out to others to do it for her. The fact she called this “helping her” rather than “doing for her” became a nuance and minor detail. Her reasoning was “If I can’t do it myself, what am I supposed to do but ask for help?”

When I was young I saw my mother as strong, powerful, and capable of anything. Her motto was “how will you ever know if you don’t try?” She always advocated a life of experience, urging us to go and do and see the world. As she aged, she tempered that enthusiasm. There were more pleas to remain safe, remain close. Perhaps it was the stroke in the 90s. Maybe her response to 9/11 caused her to pull back. And as her body broke down I saw her become trapped in her body and eventually her home.

First it was her knee, grinding till it failed. Then a hip, forcing her into a chair. She replaced it and got by for a while. Then came the cycle of fighting breast cancer that lasted well into Covid and overlapped with back surgery. Naturally she slowed down. Who wouldn’t if you spend year after year in constant pain?

And then she started slipping mentally. We worried she was losing the ability to care for herself. Following directions became increasingly difficult, making travel less possible. That’s around the time we moved her closer, to keep an eye on her. Her paranoia increased and keeping friends turned into a lost cause. Between the politics of Covid and a post-Roe world, Mom found it harder and harder to discover joy in the world. Her negativity skyrocketed, turning a one-bright eyed optimist into a jaded Boomer. Or maybe she just got older, like so many people do. In the end she didn’t suddenly transform into a tired, bitter woman so much as lapsed into it.

Like Bruce Banner, had she the will or way to suppress the beast I’m not sure if she would. Mom secretly enjoyed the effect she had on people. She didn’t enjoy causing chaos, but the attention she got from those helping her gave such a rush I’m not sure she could stop going back to the well. As an orphan I suspect Mom saw helping as one of her love languages. If you love me then you’ll help me. If she wasn’t getting the attention she needed, Mom could and would lash out and accuse you of neglect. Even now as the sting still resonates from harsh words said in the darkness and fear of abandonment, I know she was simply afraid.

And that personality changed depending on whoever was on the phone. For her niece she gave support and the assurance everything was all right. To her sons she gave dutiful progress reports of her condition as it worsened. And she listened to their problems and enjoyed being a Mom. To her sister I cannot say; those conversations were private. The long estrangement proved too great and barrier to tear down, but narrow enough at some spots over which they could speak and retreat if necessary.

And so we closed out the second decade of the 21st century with a pandemic, worsening health, and the start of her hallucinations. At this point we knew she had Lewy Body. The symptoms were identical. Her neurologist allowed the diagnosis to be discussed openly as a possibility. And a new Mom emerged from this cocoon. Fairly stable but completely broken. She could function, but the edges were fraying.