Mom’s teeth are not doing well. It’s hard to tell just by looking what’s going on with them, especially as Mom won’t willingly open her mouth to show us. There are flashes of black when she smiles. We can’t tell if it’s because her teeth are cracked or perhaps she stubbornly won’t let them be brushed. How serious is the problem? Is it worth fixing Mom’s teeth? What would be needed not only to examine her but treat her? Would they have to put her under with an anesthetic? Will

We seem to be in a kind of dance. We take three steps forward and one step back. Now that we are all vaccinated with our second dose of the vaccine, Mom’s facility has stopped all visits because there is fear that the vaccine will not protect against the COVID variants. We are reduced once again to calling her via video chat which does not engage her attention. Our hearty hellos fall hollow and we are often wind up silently watching Mom sit at her table either playing with a

Along with the physical and mental reawakening Mom has experienced with the change to her medications, she’s also become quite feisty. She yells at the nurses and deliberately tries to do her own thing. Today, on arriving for a visit with her, my dad watched as at first she refused to walk outside the building to meet him. When she finally saw that it was her “lovely” husband who had come to visit, she wanted to walk directly to him rather than to the designated visiting spot

It is up to us to give them the tools to continue their lives in the public sphere as long as possible.

It’s not a matter of how many goodbyes we have left, but how many hellos

This week marks the 5th anniversary of my blog, The Lost Kitchen, which features the ups and downs of caring for my mom who has Alzheimer’s. Mom was diagnosed eight years ago. And the blog was created a few years later as a platform from which to publicize a book I had started writing back then with my dad, The Man’s Emergency Cookbook. That’s what we wanted to call it, a humorous nod to all the men out there who had to learn to cook because their situations had changed drast

Mom was so delighted to see my dad today. It was as if her grey existence suddenly became bright, as if she knew she was missing something—or someone—in her life, and she could relax. She didn’t want to be there but we managed to sit and talk with her as she had her coffee, walk with her a little, sing a few songs. Mostly she shushed me so that she could talk to Daddy, serenading him with a slew of nonsensical words. Then it was time to go. We left her listening and singing a

I often think that life in a seniors’ residence must be routine, maybe even boring. And perhaps it is. If you have Alzheimer’s, the schedule is probably soothing—a predictable morning, the same faces every day, the same walk to the dining room—despite not remembering what the schedule is. And yet, we miss so much of what happens to Mom on a daily basis, even though between my dad and me, we visit her every day. For the past few days, Mom has had a bandage on her right ear. Ho

“We are all capable of dancing,” Mom says as we swing round the room. She’s talking to the other residents who are mostly sitting in chairs, many staring off into some distant place. She wants them to join her in dancing. The “radio” is playing 50’s music and with the help of the staff, some of the residents wave their arms or rise and step tentatively in a circle. This dancing is a precursor to our main event—an eye exam with an optometrist who owns a business called OptiCar

Is there an alternative to giving anti-psychotic drugs and ensuring a meaningful, calm day for my mom? I sure hope so, because it saddens me to no end to see what these drugs are doing to her. I am half way through a book called Contented Dementia: 24-Hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being* that was suggested by a friend. This book speaks my language. It puts into a framework of caring for dementia patients many of the ways I’ve tried to interact with Mom. It does it in

“Hello, who’s this?” Mom asks suspiciously. “Hi, Mom,” I reply as distinctly as I can. “It’s your daughter, Miriam.” Talking on the phone with Mom is hit or miss. Sometimes she’s sure of how to talk into the receiver, other times she’ll pick up her glasses or even a tissue lying by her bed before she finds the right contraption. When my brother Simon makes his daily call, he calls my dad’s cell phone. That way Mom can see Simon’s photo when she talks to him. “Oh, Miriam,” she

When my dad was away in September, in my naiveté, I thought it would be easy to drive Mom and myself and her caregiver Sahlee to my home for Shabbat. Mom expressed joy at going to see her grandchildren, and even coming with me to synagogue. Throughout the two-hour journey, Mom commented on the long straight road that seemed to lead nowhere. But she wasn’t unhappy. We listened to the radio and hummed our own tunes, and the trip seemed, to me at least, short. Almost from the mo

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 recently heard a radio show about an Alzheimer’s patient, who, when unable to draw a clock as part of his doctor’s assessment, went home and relearned how to do it. This fellow, a former physicist, was one year into his diagnosis. He was aware of having Alzheimer’s, aware, too, of the cognitive skills that the clock test was trying to assess. What an extraordinary feat of mental capacity, I marveled as I heard the story. How amazing that this man regained lost skills by thi

Mom is running a fever and has a cold. Pretty common in winter. In fact, I’m nursing a bad cold, too. It seems that not even the flu shots she got could have prevented this. If Mom were a healthy person, getting over a virus would be relatively easy, but she isn’t a healthy person. She can’t seem to recognize what’s happening to her body, let alone request help. She lay awake in bed one night shivering and shaking, and it was only by chance that my dad woke up to find her suf

“This mirror looks like me,” Mom exclaimed. We were in a café with my dad. “It does, doesn’t it?” I answered, as Daddy and I exchanged humorous glances. I was pleased she actually recognized herself. Mom’s general state is often one of confusion. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going,” she says. Today it was, “I don’t know if I’m ready for what I’m waiting for.” How apt a phrase for someone with Alzheimer’s. We try to cheer ourselves up by suggesting that even though Mom is de

There are so many of our body parts that are hidden from public view. I’m not talking about internal organs. I’m talking about our private parts, our knees, the backs of our legs, our spine, even our feet (though in summer, some of these parts are more exposed than usual). As adults, we wash and clothe ourselves in private. We are the only ones who know our bodies so thoroughly through our intimate rituals. Sometimes we notice changes. They can occur slowly or we suddenly bec

I am riding on the bus watching the sky lighten incrementally. I’ve been up since dawn getting ready to meet Mom today. And now, when I look again through the window, it is already light, pale sunshine reflecting off the city’s tall buildings. I am fearful. I have been living too comfortably with the status quo, with the idea that Mom is in an okay place, a holding pattern where she functions within societal norms and can care for herself physically. I am afraid to lift my he

“It’s a long way to walk from Tel Aviv,” Mom said on the phone. “Should we pick you up? Here, talk to Daddy.” I called, as I do every week, when I was on the sherut, the shared taxi that travels from the Tel Aviv bus station to Netanya. It usually takes 30 minutes and gets me right into the center of Netanya’s bustling city. How telling that one short conversation was. “It’s a long way to walk from Tel Aviv,” I repeated to Daddy when he took the receiver. We both laughed, and