When my parents moved to Beer Sheva from Netanya in 2017, the transition was very difficult for Mom. She never seemed to settle in their new house. She’d search the rooms and hallway for a hidden staircase, gather books and clothes and bundle them up to take on a journey, constantly seek my dad when he wasn’t with her, and roam the house at night searching for the bathroom. Mom’s emotional state became more brittle, too. The anger flared daily and she lashed out at us physica

Instead of observing and complaining about how Mom is becoming weak, I decided to do something about it. We’d assumed that Mom was receiving individual physiotherapy—and had in fact requested it for her months ago—but it turns out that she has refused to participate with the physiotherapist, and no one in the home told us! How easy it would be to coordinate the time for her sessions with us so that either I or my dad could be there to assist. What’s so important about physiot

I cannot take care of both my mom and my 1½-year-old grandson at the same time. Perhaps this is an obvious observation, but it became apparent when my son and daughter-in-law left for a long weekend—and left their precious cargo with us. I was thrilled to babysit, though I had forgotten how much intensive energy is involved in watching a small child. I was alone with them both for half an hour. We were in the safe confines of my house and Mom was enjoying watching Roi’s antic

They’re he-ere! I can’t quite believe it. All the planning and agonizing has finally come to fruition. My parents are now officially my neighbors. The noise of the move, boxes strewn across the floor, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings—all overwhelmed Mom. I took her to my house for several hours where we pet the cat, drank tea and read children’s books. Mom wasn’t happy about returning to her new home, but when she saw my dad she visibly relaxed. The strangeness of the da

My wonderful Auntie Barbara is visiting from England. She is full of laughter and the promise of adventure. It means, though, that Mom is more confused about who I am. I stopped correcting her long ago when she called me Barbara or introduced me as her sister. As long as there is love between us, it doesn’t matter who she thinks I am. Mom’s access to her memories is jagged. One minute she’ll rail that she doesn’t have a sister. The next, she and Barbara are fluidly singing so

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

Two weeks since I last wrote and my mom is still ill. She has a urinary tract infection that won't go away. She's been on three types of antibiotics and because pills have now become difficult for her to swallow, we're dissolving them in cranberry juice. While I was away, my brother Simon arrived from California for 10 days to help out. And this weekend, they all came to visit me—Simon, Mom and Daddy, along with my oldest and his wife, plus the two kids who still live at home

Mom keeps family photos on her dresser. There’s an engagement photo of me and my brother with our respective spouses the summer we both got engaged. And one of my oldest as a baby—Mom’s first grandson. And a flattering photo of me when I was in college. “Oh, that’s me,” I say, seeing the photo. I remember my birthday party in London the summer I turned 21 as being special. We’d gone out to celebrate in a posh restaurant with my aunt, uncle and cousins, and some of our oldest

A door is a metaphor for so many aspects of life. Doors that open to opportunity, hope, an invitation, new beginnings, other worlds. There are doors to the outside, doors to the inside, doors into even more enclosed spaces. There’s that lovely quote from The Sound of Music: “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” And let’s not forget Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. We move physically and figuratively from one place to another through door after do

Early warnings of Mom’s Alzheimer’s were present long before she was diagnosed. There were always strange incidents where Mom seemed befuddled by common events. Once, at the end of a cops-and-robbers movie, Mom innocently asked who the bad guys were. How had she not understood? We made fun of her idiosyncrasies, her Pollyannaish view of the world. Today, because of her Alzheimer’s, she’s less conscious of societal conventions and more prone to give in to her simple nature. Sh

During my visit today, I interviewed Mom for my daughter’s final 12th grade art project. The multi-media piece will include drawings of Mom from different periods in her life that are partly out of focus, a fog machine that hinders sight, and the interview, looped to distraction. I asked a series of question over and over. What is your name? How old are you? How many children do you have? Where do you live? The discomfort Mom felt in answering these questions was evident. It

This is the verse that sticks with me from last week’s Torah reading: The nakedness of your father and the nakedness of your mother you shall not uncover. She is your mother; you must not uncover her nakedness. Leviticus 18:7 Instinctively, I know that this prohibition and the following prohibitions listed in the weekly portion are related to sexual transgressions. What I couldn’t shake, however, was the image of Mom—confused, fragile—when she tried to take a shower in my bat

Would you believe I haven’t written in two weeks because I was in Bulgaria?!! It’s true! I was the staff escort to the AACI Jewish Heritage and Kosher Bulgaria tour that spent ten days touring a most interesting country. We visited several cities including Sofia, Plovdiv and Veliko Traverno. We saw Roman, Byzantine, Turkish, German, and Russian remains in a country that has been buffeted by one conquering army after another. We learned about the Jewish community through the a