“I called to tell you your Aunt Betty has passed.”
“I’m the last of 5 you know.”
“I’m so upset about the news that I get confused. I’m the last standing of 8 you know.”
“I don’t know why nobody called me.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Did you go to the funeral?”
“I’m the last of 5 you know: let’s see Mary, you…”
“I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Do you know if Ma knows?”
“Will you send me the notice in the paper?”
“I’m the last of 5 – I didn’t think I’d outlive them all.”
“I love you. Talk to you later.”
I know Mom. I know that you are upset and amazed at outliving twelve brothers and sisters. I know that you just forgot for a little that your mother died in 1971. I know that you just forgot momentarily that I was your daughter and not your sister. I know that you were on a nice vacation in the mountains with your companion and your children didn’t want to call you and upset you on your trip — maybe the last trip you’ll remember until you forget totally. I know that you love me. I know it’s not the last time you’ll call me the wrong child. It’s okay — I know Mom — it’s okay. (It’s really not okay, is it Mom? But that’s life.)
ProfSharon // Jul 24, 2009 at 10:22 pm
I appreciate the comments. Suzanne, you’ve especially captured the reality of it erasing life…there are more and more moments when I realize how often I would say to Mom: “remember when….?”
Suzanne // Jul 23, 2009 at 3:54 pm
That was beautifully written and incredibly touching. The loss of a loved one is always difficult, but there’s something especially cruel about the slow-motion loss of Alzheimer’s erasing your life before you pass.
SerahRose // Jul 21, 2009 at 1:04 pm
I’m sorry, mom. Sometimes the best you can do is good enough. And you’re doing your best.
Pat // Jul 21, 2009 at 12:51 pm
Put’s it all in perspective. doesnt it? 🙁