It may sound odd for a Jewish person to say , but sometimes , in those moments , I felt a little like Jesus washing the feet of his disciples — humbled by the opportunity to serve and honored by the trust of another person granting you the intimacy of slathering their dry , purple skin with Nivea . The philosophers say that there is no love — only acts of love . Snapping clean sheets over a previously soiled bed , warming pajamas in the dryer — there is love to be wrung from easing another human being ’ s discomfort , even if it is faint and fleeting . Other times , it felt exhausting and impossible . And I don ’ t know if I would have felt it at all were I doing this day after day with no endpoint in sight or if our past relationship had been contentious . ( Certainly , plenty of people do .) “ You were losing your mind ,” my sister Debbie reminds me . Mom returned to Baltimore a few pounds heavier , with some new clothes from a trip to the mall we managed and a new friend from the senior center . These inches of gain didn ’ t last . Even with Ophelia coming in every day to cook , clean and help my mother with the tasks of daily care , their little troop of three was losing the war against advancing brain disease . My mother had become so physically frail that the six steps separating the main floor from the bedrooms and bathrooms had become a mountain . My siblings and I agonized over the next inevitable move . What would happen when my mother was physically separated from John ? She still loved to climb into his lap and tuck her body under the refuge of his arm . COVID had just begun its sweep through the nursing homes . Moving her into a facility felt like a death sentence .
By the summer of 2020 , we could no longer ignore the impending disaster of a fall and a broken hip . We found a place — far from her home , but conveniently five minutes away from the neighborhood where John would be living with his daughter . She had been a hospice nurse and vouched for the small , assisted living center ’ s cleanliness , home-cooked food and attentive care . Eventually , my mother became habituated to this new place and routine . John , who has been beset by his own health challenges , visits twice a week .
I make the trip to Baltimore one weekend a month , and I see that love . I climb into her easy chair and we cling to each other , reveling in the power of human touch . Sometimes , I take my mother ’ s old neighbor and her new puppy . Sunny scrabbles onto Mom ’ s lap and licks her face . She laughs as she protests . The aides are Latinx immigrants who accept my mother ’ s hand kisses and return her hugs as if she was their own bisabuela . They like to wheel her to the kitchen door , where she can immerse herself in their cheerful bustle . My mother still wants to be in the middle of things . She regards “ the girls ” as friends and co-workers . Occasionally , my mother tells me that she wants to take care of them
— give them money , or a gift in appreciation . See ? Love .
Should my mother live long enough , Alzheimer ’ s will steal everything from her , including basic reflexes , like the ability to swallow . But for now , I hold on to what remains .
I have spoken to my mother almost every day for most of my life , and that is still the case . She suffers serious aphasia , so we don ’ t have conversations in the conventional sense . Sentences proceed hopefully , with a noun and a verb . But the object tumbles through the clogged tunnels of her mind and comes to rest in a random place , like the reel of an old-fashioned slot machine . It could be an actual word mangled by the recalcitrant muscles in her mouth , or it could be gibberish . Few thoughts get completed . My brother Michael once reported that he had spoken to her for forty minutes on the phone . “ Really ? Forty minutes ?” I said . “ What did you talk about ?” “ No clue ,” he said . Our daily chats usually last about five minutes . I use them to gauge Mom ’ s mood and energy . Sometimes they open with a bright “ Hi babe !” I ask her how she ’ s doing , and if she is working today . The state of the weather once closely tracked her attitude , but she can only go outside when it ’ s nice and warm , so that correlation has fallen away . She can ’ t grapple her mind onto another ’ s experiences ; prattling on about life doesn ’ t do much to fill the void . There are times when she is distraught that she has no money or house ( she has both ), or by the persistent delusion that her father was murdered ( he died of a heart attack ). Worse are those flashes of realization about her reality . Recently , things went dark as my mother struggled to express how diminished she has become . “ I am no one ,” she said . “ I ’ m ashamed .” “ No ! No ,” I insisted . “ You are still here . John , me , Debbie , Michael , we see it . You are still here . We see the person you have always been . We love you . We love you !”
She accepted my counterargument , or she ’ d already forgotten her despair . Our call ended with calm restored .
The very best interactions follow a normal arc : Greetings are exchanged . Then my mother tells me an incomprehensible story of things she imagines she is doing . The experts advise loved ones against correcting an Alzheimer ’ s patient ’ s fantasies — they are real to them . Your job is to go with it — or , as they say in improv , always “ say yes ” to the premise . And , honestly , given the current state of affairs , a conversation about make-believe events would be refreshing . Alas , I rarely understand what she is trying to tell me , so I ’ m confined to responses such as “ That ’ s great !” “ She did ?” and “ You ’ re kidding me .” We close with my promise to call her tomorrow . “ I love you ,” I ’ ll say . “ I love you , too . Very much — believe me ,” she ’ ll reply . And I do . �
RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY l MAY 2022 81