We were gifted a rare interaction with Mom this week. When we called to video conference, Mom was alert and communicative. Though she reserved her best endearments for the staff with whom she interacts in her facility, she actually followed our conversation and nodded along with us when we sang to her. She told us she loved us. And as we were saying goodbye, she spoke directly to my dad and said, “Bye bye, Darling.” How is it that such a small thing can buoy our emotions so c

We were sitting together, the four of us, our core family: my brother Simon visiting from California, my parents, and me. It gave me the comforting illusion of being whole, at least for a few moments. Mom has enjoyed these family visits so much, but only during the last one could she name us all or remember who we were. During the other visits, she accepted us as people she trusts but does not know. We dance with her, sing her favorite songs, laughingly engage her in absurd c

This is what I tell myself: Don’t get upset, it’s not worth it. This is just Mom’s way. If you are frustrated, don’t let her know it. If she doesn’t want to eat, don’t worry, she’s not starving. If she wants to play with the food, moving it from here to there, mixing and adding it on her plate in random patterns, let her. If she won’t take the spoon from you, perhaps you can feed her. If she won’t accept you feeding her, let it go. I am having a hard time controlling my frust

It happened as I knew it would. The second day into my two-week trip abroad, Mom was moved into a closed Alzheimer’s ward. Despite being with my family, despite all the fun things we did together (visiting Muir Woods, the Golden Gate Bridge, swimming in my brother’s pool, China Town, a full Shabbat of enjoyable guests), those quite moments when I was by myself were the hardest. I tried not to cry in front of my kids. I wasn’t too successful. It didn’t help that Mom was disori

Sometimes I feel so tired and overwhelmed by the enormity of caring and loving my mom. I try hard not to show it when I’m with her, though there have been occasions when I lean back and let her prattle on, with barely the energy to nod my head at her outrageous conversation. Mostly, though, it is enchanting to sing and smile with her and supply the words she struggles to remember. It’s Mom’s birthday tomorrow. She’s turning 77. We will of course tell her, and celebrate, but s

I was proud of myself today for bringing Mom home from the mall with absolutely no displays of anger. It was an intense effort to be with her and talk to her in a deferential, unquestioning manner, one of the tips I have learned from the book, Contented Dementia: 24-Hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being by Oliver James.* Along with asking no questions, the book suggests deferring to Mom in a way that builds her self-esteem as the one who knows more than me. When we wer

The tagline for the book Elizabeth is Missing* is: “How do you solve a mystery when you can’t remember the clues?” This first novel by Emma Healey is narrated by a woman suffering from Alzheimer’s. At first, I wondered if the book would be repetitive, given the nature of Alzheimer’s. It made me uncomfortable, peering into the lives of a family similar to mine. The shame the daughter feels at explaining her mom’s actions; the sadness as the narrator, Maud, flits from memory to

“It’s your birthday today,” I told Mom. “It’s my birthday?” she asked innocently. “We’ll have to have a party.” We’d already come back from a celebratory lunch, but Mom didn’t remember. When we asked her to guess how old she was, she answered 16 or 17. I don’t think I’d chose that age again, though at 16, I was a strong individual with an eye to the future. Teenagers willfully forget common sense and sometimes even reality to pursue their own agendas. In comparison, Mom’s for

We seem to have turned a corner. Mom has finished her course of antibiotics, and is doing much better. She was more her positive self and we laughed and sang together. As I arrived at their building, a social worker was calling on the intercom to be let in for a surprise visit. The social worker was from Matav, the organization that helped my dad hire our lovely foreign caregiver; they try to send someone every two months to check on the families they assist. Mom was angered

Coming home from a trip abroad is like slipping into your most comfortable pair of shoes. It feels natural. It feels good. Today, one day after arriving home from China, jetlag and all, I traveled to see my parents. Mom seems about the same as when I saw her two weeks ago. She is sweet, sassy, sometimes angry, always confused. I am thrilled that she still knows me ostensibly as her daughter, though she asked several times where the children were, even as I sat next to her on

Today is my blog’s first anniversary. If I look back to what I was writing a year ago, I can almost make believe we are in a holding pattern, that the “near distant future” will be a long time coming. Although it is unclear how much time remains, we are aware each day, each month, each year, that Alzheimer’s will soon claim all of Mom. It is not always easy to keep my emotions in check. In my darker moments, I cry for the loss of my beloved mother; I achingly accept her repla

Every time I tell Mom I can’t visit this week because of Shavuot, the Jewish holiday that commemorates the giving of the Torah, Mom starts talking about Sukkot, the holiday of booths that is celebrated in the fall. I don’t know what the connection is, other than the sound of the holidays’ names. “We used to build a sukkah on our balcony,” Mom tells me. I wonder where she is in time. Certainly not since their move to Israel almost 20 years ago have they constructed a sukkah. A