My mother calls my name all day. And all day I answer her.
Sometimes she remembers me when I come into her room. Sometimes she doesn’t.
I want more than anything to give her back her memories.
Memories which are dear, like the birth of her children and even the death of her siblings.
I want to take away the fear in her eyes when she doesn’t remember where she is.
The fear when she thinks her grandson is a stranger.
The fear when she has forgotten how to swallow.
I want understanding from family members who cannot relate.
Understanding that I choose to sleep on the sofa so that she doesn’t wander out of the house at night.
Understanding that I feed her baby food and pills trying to keep her in our world one more day.
If I could get one prayer answered, it would be for God to deliver her from Alzheimer’s.
Delivered from this sickness so that her grandkids could see her laugh and taste her cooking.
Every now and then, her old personality breaks through and she sings her favorite gospel hymn.
Those rare days are the moments I cherish and jot down in my memory.
Every now and then, she yells at me to turn the TV down. Reminding me of when I was a kid and she took care of me.
Now the tables have turned and I spend my days taking care of her. Bathroom breaks, naps, and medication fill our days and nights.
As hard as it is to watch her memories fade, I will forever be thankful to spend these moments with her.
Through my frustration, there will always be love.
Whenever I leave the house and she is left with a caretaker, love makes me rush back to care for the woman who gave me life.
I know she still loves me. I know this, even on the days when she can’t tell me. I see it in her eyes and the way she grabs my hand and holds on tight. Distorted memories can’t change our love. The love of a son and his mother, a bond stronger than any sickness, if she can only live in this exact moment, then I want to be living in this exact moment with her.
