When I started sorting papers and things that have been sitting in my bedside table, I came across a stack of birthday cards that my husband Jeff and my kids had written to me over the years. Each one I looked at was so precious. Cards from Jeff dated back to 2011, a sign of how long I’d let that drawer go unattended, though older cards were saved elsewhere. I was overwhelmed by the words of love he’d shared with me. The kids’ cards were filled with mistakes as they learned t

I was having a lovely time laughing and singing with Mom today. Most of what we talked about was nonsense, but she was in a relatively good mood. One of the residents kept crying. It seems she had fallen and her arm was in a cast. The staff gently placed a pillow under her arm, trying to position her as comfortably as possible. The TV was playing some Russian pop music. Other residents were calling to each other, chattering, talking. The staff was conversing. It was a noisy e

At what point does the life of a caregiver become the focus in a relationship with a patient? What are the caregiver’s obligations to her loved one? Is a caregiver allowed to question his methods of care? Are they adequate? Do they allow for the caregiver to also live fully? In Contented Dementia,* Oliver James calls this the “tipping point.” He advises caregivers to define this emotional scenario well in advance of it occurring so that arrangements can be made to move the pa

When Mom and I took a short walk to the grocery store and back, she was hesitant about where we were walking. She literally recognized nothing. Instead, she watched the people walking past us. As a social individual, Mom tried to connect to almost everyone who was on the sidewalk with us. She’d say hello or smile and nod. Quite a few people, either because they recognize her or because she’s a friendly old bird, reacted. This was so important to her, that she actually comment

I am learning that it is often best not to delay or challenge Mom’s instincts when she’s in a bad mood. The sticky, humid heat is getting to her. We spent the morning wandering in town and having coffee before my dad left us for one of his meetings. By the time we walked back to their apartment, Mom complained of being soaked through. All she wanted to do was lie down. I tried to get her to paint with me. I took out the water colors, covered the table with newspaper, and posi

Whenever I’m with my extended family at an event, I always feel torn between my sense of responsibility and my desire to enjoy myself. The brit of my grandson was no exception. (Yes, I have a new grandson and his name is Roi Michael, and I am so thrilled to be a grandmother!) I sat with my parents, making sure Mom was never alone. I took her to the bathroom, helped her find the tissues in her purse, surreptitiously removed from her purse the fancy cloth napkin she insisted wa

Mom’s sister, my Auntie Barbara, is visiting from London. It is great to see her. She is a wild, funny, woman with strong opinions and a quirky view of the world. She is always laughing, a real glass-half-full personality. When they were younger, she and my mom had a close, loving relationship. Even though they’ve lived apart most of their adult lives, they’ve always been in touch and visited each other when they can. Mom understands what a sister is supposed to be: someone y

“I dream about you,” Mom says to me. We are sitting together on the couch in the living room. “Oh, really? What do you dream,” I ask. “I dream you are with me, and when I wake up, I can’t remember if you’re here or not.” “That must be hard to sort out,” I say, trying for empathy and understanding. “You don’t know the half of it,” she says. The summer I was 16, I was part of a program that tried to teach us what it was like to grow old. We wore glasses with Vaseline smeared on

I went to a lunch today for two of Mom’s friends who are celebrating their 80th birthdays. Talk turned quickly to aging and finding secrets to health and longevity. “This is the best medicine,” said Ruth, laughing and schmoozing with her friends. She had almost stayed home but decided to push past her lethargy. “And it’s free!” said Bea, one of the birthday girls. “You should ask your doctor for happy pills,” chimed in Susie. What’s in a happy pill, I wanted to know. “Who kno

and a little chicken.... “I hope you don’t feel I’m a nuisance,” she said lightly as we were sitting in synagogue. I might have grumbled internally at answering the same questions over and over again. I might have inwardly groaned at helping her find her place in the prayer book at the expense of my own prayers. I might even have quietly rebelled against helping her dress for synagogue or supervising her in the kitchen and at the table, but until she said it, I was content to