I spent an emotional day in the Israeli coastal town of Netanya on Sunday, reading from my book, The Lost Kitchen, and talking to my mom’s friends. One woman showed me the bracelet Mom had given her for her birthday 15 years ago, still being worn as a reminder of their close friendship. Another proudly told me that she was the first one to invite my parents to dinner after their arrival in 1994. These friends spoke of her beautiful smiles, her enthusiastic greetings, her melo

My sweet, beautiful, lively mother has forgotten how to walk. This is the second time in a month that Mom is on antibiotics. If something is ailing her, we don’t know what it is. Perhaps there’s a connection between that and her sudden inability to walk. This is a woman who last year danced like a young ballerina for the admissions panel at her care facility; who astounded us five years ago when she and my dad spontaneously started cutting a rug at my son’s wedding; and who,

One of the residents in Mom’s facility fell last week and broke her arm. Her eye is horribly bruised, and she must now be helped with everything, including eating and drinking, at least until her arm heals. Maria keeps forgetting she’s broken her arm. Her protestations that she can function lead to her knocking her coffee off the table. She also keeps trying unsuccessfully to rise from her chair, as she can’t put pressure on her arm to push herself upwards from a sitting posi

When I saw Mom on Friday, I came home sad and depressed. Mom had a bad cold, and it was clearly affecting her abilities. When we pulled her up from her chair to walk with us, her legs were visibly shaking, and she was shuffling along like Tim Conway in the Carol Burnett Show. If it weren’t so wretched, I’d be laughing. As younger people, we don’t appreciate the truth of the adage, “use it or lose it.” What may feel to us like burdensome repetitive chores—doing laundry, shoppi

Sometimes, standing still is a good thing. Mom seems to be in a holding pattern in her new Alzheimer’s ward. She exhibits a wide range of emotions, talks a mile a minute to anyone who will listen (even when they don’t understand her), and generally participates in group activities. Plus, she has her music to keep her company. I can’t ask for more. We are resting on a small plateau, knowing there will be more—sometimes rapid—downturns in Mom’s mind and body, and we are enjoyin

How quickly I go from elation to despair—from reveling in my brother Simon’s impromptu three-day visit to anguishing over the person most missing from our core family gatherings. The person. The one colorful, generous, loving, joyful mother who sits in her closed Alzheimer’s ward with no concept of being missed, no concept at all of who we are or what we mean to her, or she to us. Today when we visited, we sat outside in the courtyard in the warm sunshine and played ball to s

How does the little bird in P.D. Eastman’s classic book, Are You My Mother? know who his mother is? The bird intuits that only his mother will love and cherish him, feed him and care for his welfare, and in his short travels he eliminates those animals and things that cannot do this. This question has been troubling me as I both wilfully stay away from my mom and devotedly rush to visit. I can’t seem to reach a compromise. Because behind it all, I keep asking myself if she is

The first time I visited her, I wanted to burst into tears. I could not believe that this stooped, drowsy woman smelling of urine was my vivacious mom. Daddy had warned me they’d upped her dose of anti-psychotics to calm her during her transition to the Alzheimer’s ward, and had added anti-anxiety meds, too. Apparently, this is common in these situations. I am sure I would also find it terrifying to be told I had to sleep in a strange place with unfamiliar faces, especially i

“You’re only fit for the gutter, you are,” she angrily spat at me. It hurts to hear her talk like that. I know my mom would never say that. But my Alzheimer’s mom says things like that all the time. And in that instance, that other mom hated me. Why? Because I had tried to guide her to a bench to sit while we waited for my dad to pick us up. It is ironic that I’m using Mom’s designations—the other Jack, the other Miriam—to describe how I feel about her. The truth is, Daddy an

“Mom has been very belligerent this morning,” Daddy told me on the phone. I was on the last leg of my journey to their apartment, having boarded the shared taxi from Tel Aviv to Netanya. “She’s been shouting and yelling. She pushed me out of the bathroom and swore at me and called me a ‘dirty old man.’ Then she refused my help getting dressed. I wanted you to know.” I was still about forty-five minutes away, so there was not much I could do, but I did say hi to Mom on the pho

Mom’s walking has become problematic. Her stride has shortened, and she seems to shuffle as she walks, scraping her feet against the ground with each step. There’s not much we can do about this except to keep her active and walking for as long as possible. To do that, she needs shoes that are supportive, comfortable, and easy to put on. When we looked through her closet, we noticed that most of Mom’s shoes are quite old. Their soles are worn and don’t provide much traction. M

I’m worried about Mom’s legs. We were out for about two hours and by the time we started walking home, mom was complaining about pains in her legs and her gait was noticeably shorter. It turns out that our gait—the way we walk or stride—can reflect not only physical disabilities but neurological conditions. Talk about medical information I never thought I’d know. There’s a Parkinsonian gait and a gait that is prevalent in stroke victims, myopathic gaits (from muscle diseases)

Mom and I walked in the rain today. It was a light rain, and as we ambled along, we sang rain songs. It felt good to be out, and when we were rewarded with sunshine, it made the walk worthwhile. Exercise is such an important aspect of health at any age. One study I came across suggests that increased activity levels can prevent Alzheimer’s in one in three individuals.* Regular physical activity ensures there is a steady flow of oxygen-rich blood to the brain that in turn prev