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

Recently, I’ve been struggling with the notion of time. How do I divide my time when my loved one is in an institution? Is there any specific formula that works, i.e., visits every day, or once a week, short visits or long, or at specific times of the day? It seems that it is all tied up in my thought process and in my difficulty in making decisions. As much as I know my mom is receiving good care in her closed care facility, I also know that there are blank hours in her day

Sometimes there are large billboards on the side of the road that seem to scream out at you as you drive by. I felt I was passing one this past Friday when we visited Mom for her birthday. “ALZHEIMER’S SUCKS! IT WILL STEAL YOUR TIME.” That’s what was written on my private billboard. Sadly, Mom has no sense of what it means to have a birthday. None of the anticipation of growing older, maturing or receiving presents that kids feel, or, sometimes, even us middle-aged adults exp

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 don’t have patience for this, I thought as I listened to the woman on the phone. As part of my job, I sometimes answer a hotline for people who have immigration-related questions about their lives in Israel. The hotline is supposed to be for quick calls—simple questions with little follow-up. As I struggled with this call, it became evident that the woman on the other end of the line had memory problems. I repeated the information she had requested. Then I repeated it again

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 doesn't seem so excited to see me this morning. When I knock on the door, I hear my dad tell her a surprise visitor is arriving. And then it is just me standing there, a familiar face whom she can’t quite place. “Hi, Mom, your Miriam’s here,” I call as I give her a big hug. Ah, recognition. I make a point of showing Mom photos of the family when I come. I take out my phone and show her our latest pictures. There’s the one of the big fat cat that she adores. Here’s one fro

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

How do we mark the passage of time? Yes, there is the calendar with its cycle of seasons, holidays, and birthdays. And yes, we are by nature different from one year to the next, from one specific date in the year—let’s say our birthday—to the same date the following year; we have aged, lived through additional experiences, come to some truths (hopefully) about whom we are and how the world functions. Somehow, that doesn’t do it for me. I get all muddled when I try and remembe

It startles me every time, the way Mom can’t keep in mind what is right in front of her. Last night we went to my son’s army swearing-in ceremony. We sat together on a hard bench looking into the setting sun as 300 soldiers held both the Torah and their weapon and vowed to defend Israel with their lives. We managed to take a few photos of him marching into and out of the arena. He was so intent on marching, he almost didn’t see us waving and calling. What a handsome young man