Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

You don't remember anymore but when I was about 8, dad took me to the store to buy you a gift for Mother's Day and I selected what had to be the ugliest cross ever created. It was dark green, very shiny, and heavy on the fake gold. I remember it had some large stone in the middle, where the bars intersected. When I picked it out, I recall being impressed with its size and weight, the heavy gold chain in my small hand. I'm sure dad tried to steer me away from this cross but I clearly won that argument.  I remember that I couldn't wait for you to see it. Dad and I brought it home, wrapped it up and gave it to you. I don't remember what happened when you opened it, but I remember you wearing it all day, and telling me how much you appreciated my gift.

I think about that day often and about the many lessons that you taught me. That day, you showed me how important it was to be grateful for the thoughtfulness behind a gift. You taught me that it is more important to love the giver, than the gift. You showed me that you valued that I had spent time selecting this especially for you. You wore the cross all day, showing me how important it was to demonstrate gratefulness. You probably had hopes for something else, maybe even something practical- but you never let a disappointed sigh, hint or word cross your lips. In fact, you never got rid of the cross - I remember seeing it fairly recently. You held onto it, much later than you needed to. Even when I became an adult, and tried to dismiss the ugliness of it, you continued to refer to it with great affection.

Thank you mom, for the lessons of that day and the many that came later. I hope our gifts to you in the years between have shown you how truly grateful we are to you.

A nice visit with mom

Sunday was a beautiful day again in Southern California. It was glorious, sunny, the kind of day my mom would have taken full advantage of had she not developed Alzheimer's. If not for Alzheimer's, mom would be 1) gardening, pruning her roses, tending to her fig trees, and the hibiscus or 2) sweeping the sidewalk and stopping to talk to passersby or 3) all of the previous.

I drive to the facility, get out of the car and tilt my face straight up into the beautiful blue sky. It'll be a nice day to be out with mom. She is getting additional visitors today.

I go to mom's floor, enter the secret code and walk over to her as she is finishing breakfast. I wait for her to finish and she pays no notice. I approach her, and we begin our usual greeting. I look at her eyes, smile at her and say "Hi, mom". Today I say "Hi, mom". Sometimes I say "Hi Gomez". Gomez was her maiden name and before she became really sick, I used to call her Gomez instead of mom. Since she's been sick, its been harder for me to say that and go there again.

Mom smiles at me, reaches for my hand and kisses it. She does that a lot lately. She asks me where I've been; when did I get here? I tell her that I was home and at work. She tells me that I'm beautiful and it breaks my heart. I am holding her hand and I am struck by how small it is. So frail in mine. Why am I noticing this again? its like this every week. Maybe I've got it too now.

I tell her to get up, and I kind of have to pull at her hand and arm a little to get her going. I tell her she is having company today. My uncle, a couple of aunts and my dear cousin Ed are coming to visit. She smiles and is unaware of who they are but she is happy to go with me. I am so glad she goes with me pretty much wherever I ask.

It's my mom's brother, his wife and mom's sister, and I really appreciate that they take the time every four to six weeks or so to come and visit, driving 60 plus miles one way to stay three hours with mom. Mom doesn't know who they are, but she seems to be happy that they are visiting and is fine as long as she doesn't get memory quizzes. Sometimes its hard for family and friends to understand that a person doesn't remember anything about their previous life, the one before Alzheimer's. Its difficult to resist the urge to say "who am I?" or "do you remember father? what do you remember? do you remember home?" Mom gets annoyed by questions and she lets you know it.

I open the music on my iPhone, set it to her favorite male singer (Pedro Infante) and give it to her. I have to keep resetting it because she forgets to hold it to her ear and she touches the buttons and ends up with Johnny Cash or nothing at all. What's funny is that when she gets no music, sometimes she continues to sing for a while. I wonder how she does that when so many other things are beyond her.

Talking with the relatives seems to push the clock forward at a faster pace. Noon comes and we start our goodbyes. It'll be time for mom's lunch soon and time for us to leave her.

It was a good day Sunday.