Grab some tissue and read this story! Amazing! My heart goes out to so many who have been through tough times with loved ones suffering through dementia. Most are excruciatingly painful–which is how this story begins:
Walking down the long hospital hallway, I approached the room in the emergency area where they had told me she would be found. As I came near the door, I found a security guard sitting there. He looked at me with sympathy as I identified myself and, with a warning and sad shaking of his head, gave me permission to enter.
I stepped into the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. On the bed, I began to make out the figure of a woman lying there, the loose-fitting hospital gown twisted around her. She was curled up, yet rocking and even writhing about on the bed. Groaning, she had her back to me. But the moment I spoke, she jerked up and, turning, glared at me. ”I know who you are,” she growled at me with eyes I could now see were wild with fear and anger. “You are Mr. Holy-Holy-Holy!”
The next moments stunned me. Despite past experiences of being near and ministering to people high on drugs, involved in the occult, or living in mental asylums, never had I witnessed anything like this. Without hyperbole, I can only describe it as demonic. Lashing out, she commanded me to leave. ”Get out of here! Now! Get him away from me!” I felt hopelessness and darkness begin to cast a shadow on my soul, as if I were peering into the pit of hell. Though I tried to speak peace and gently used her name, my efforts only made the situation worse. The security guard stepped in and suggested I come out of the room. I complied. Passing through the doorway, I leaned against the wall of the hallway, scarcely believing what I had just seen.
What made this all the more awful? The woman in the room was my mother.
Read the rest of the story by Barry York. It has a surprising ending.