What a hoot! I spent a glorious day with my dad and brother Simon in Netanya. They had been staying there for a few days’ vacation when I joined them for a day out. It was thrilling to get up at the crack of dawn, rush out the door and catch the train as I had done so many times in the past when I visited Mom and Daddy on a weekly basis. I arrived after a year’s absence and again felt my love for this dynamic city. Oh, the stores, the ice cream, the calm ocean waves, the view

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” ― Plato Music truly animates my mom. She might not remember words to songs anymore, but her recall of rhythm and emotional phrasing is amazing. Today, when the accordionist who plays weekly at Mom’s home announced that his accordion was “broken,” the staff opts to played a cd of 50s music instead. All the residents are visibly moved to tap their feet, pound the table, ev

There is no escaping the similarities between us. Mom and I look alike. We dress alike. (We both wore blue dresses on Rosh Hashanah, and on Sunday, we were wearing black skirts and white t-shirts, definitely unintentional on my part.) We walk alike. And our voices are somewhat similar, too, despite my American vs. her British accent. I am reminded of these facts every time we are together. It is not something I can avoid: it is genetically determined. I keep wondering how it

It has been two weeks since their move—a week since my brother Simon left—and my parents are firmly ensconced in their new home. Thanks to Simon, almost all the boxes are unpacked and paintings are up on the walls. There’s still more to do, but it can be handled on a more leisurely basis. We’ll get to it “acharai hachagim” (after the holidays), as everyone says here. I did not anticipate the joy I feel at popping over to my parent’s house to say hello. It is still hard to bel

When I was younger, I remember visiting a friend with a new baby. I must have obsessed about the baby crying, worrying and wondering and questioning how the friend could let her cry so. I don’t remember the sequence of events, but all of a sudden, the friend turned on me and, in an attempt to hurt me, told me I was just like my mother. Back then, without the experience of my own babies (who sometimes cried uncontrollably) or the closeness that grew between me and my mom (when

I grew up singing John Prines’ song “Dear Abby,” a humorous look at the kinds of people who write to advice columnists. Be satisfied with who you are and what you have, the song implies. Of course, Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame, takes a different perspective. His suggestion: all the whiny people of the world should just suck it up and stop whining. If I were writing an advice column about Alzheimer’s, I’d tell you to learn from my mistakes. I’ve made plenty in taking care

Mom’s watch is missing. The digital gold-plated watch she got from her sister as a birthday present a few years ago. Gone. We’ve looked in all the “regular” places: under her pillow, in the depths of her handbag, the refrigerator. Nothing. Perhaps it’s just as well. Mom can still tell time, but I’m not sure how significant knowing time is for her. She doesn’t remember the year or the month. She doesn’t even remember what day it is. She tells time by whether it’s dark or light

What a relief to come home to a quiet house. When I got back from visiting my parents, I actually looked forward to doing the laundry, to cooking dinner, to—dare I say it—doing the dishes. It was a nice day, but I worked hard to keep Mom occupied. Let's blame it on the weather. Israel is blanketed in a yellow hazy sandstorm with temperatures in the 90s. And it’s humid. Mom was restless at home, so we decided to walk the 15 minutes to the local mall. Big mistake. By the time w

Sometimes—like now—I feel overwhelmed by the responsibility of taking care of my Mom. What if, when she’s with me, she can’t be reasoned with and I can’t sooth her frayed nerves? What if she storms away from me and I lose her? I know she trusts me, but these thought were with me when we headed out for a musical evening together. Daddy stayed home. He is getting up at 4:00 am to take my aunt Barbara to the airport. I’ll be on duty then too. She's bound to wake up when they pre

How is it that poetry can stir such strong memories? I accompanied my mom to her monthly poetry class where they read and discuss poems on a specific topic—this month, work and occupations—with sources from the Torah, medieval Jewish poetry, Robert Lewis Stevenson, Walt Whitman, D.H. Lawrence, Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, and Philip Levine, among others. It was clear from the British participants, as opposed to the Americans in the room, that a greater emphasis was placed on