The Question

"How is your mother?"

I hear it all the time.  That same question, followed by that same answer. 

"She okay," I reply trying to sound hopeful, upbeat, more energetic than I feel.  "She's hangin' in there!"

The sympathetic friends surround me with encouragement.  "You're doing a great job," they tell me.  "Your mother is so lucky to have you!"  I sigh.  It isn't easy.  It is taking its toll on my nervous system.  I am tense and stressed most of the time.

I fear that her Alzheimer's is affecting her balance.  Just a short while ago she fell for the second time today.  It frightens me to see her stumble and it terrifies me when she falls.  Each time I wonder if this is the moment that will cause injury...if this is the time she will hit her head, break her hip, cause irreparable harm that will end her life.  I want to confine her, to protect her, to limit her movement but stop myself.  For the little time she has left on Earth she deserves to walk about, to feel the sun on her face, to look out at the sky, the sunset, the stars, to move about as she wishes.  I do not want to take this away from her just so that she will be safe.  What good will come of that protection?  She might live longer but she will not be happy.  I notice that she is rocking herself to sleep in a chair on the porch and worry that it might be too cold.  I check on her and she smiles broadly.  I notice that her lip has swollen where she hit it as she fell.  I struggle to think of something...anything that I can do for her.  I offer her a cup of tea and she takes it gratefully.  I am still shaken by the image of her falling backwards and nearly hitting her head on the corner of the table.  How is it that I have become more mothering, more hovering, more careful than I was when I was raising my own children?  

I sit down for a moment to quiet myself.  I observe that my hands are shaking, my throat is tight.   I struggle to relax.  Immediately I see that Mom is making motions to rise from her chair.  I rush to assist her.  She thanks me and tells me that I was named incorrectly.  I look at her quizzically. 

"They should have name you Angel," she tells me sweetly.

"They?" I question.  It is clear that she doesn't know how I am related to her.  I press on.  "Who gave me my name?" I prompt her hoping that she will come up with the correct answer.

She frowns in concentration and answers, "I don't know."

"Who am I?" (I pray that she will remember this time.)

"Are you...are you a relative?" she inquires hesitantly.

"Yes.  I'm your daughter," I remind her.  A spark of recognition is replaced almost immediately with that expression she wears most often -- the clouding over of the eyes, the distant expression, the behavior reserved for a stranger.  She has a formality in her response.  I force a cheerful smile and go inside providing her space for her dreams, her solitude, her freedom to dwell in that place of benign forgetfulness that is neither bewildering nor a nuisance to her. It no longer bothers her. She doesn't challenge herself to remember.  I wonder if it is acceptance or simply lack of comprehensions that she has forgotten everything.  Whatever the explanation, I am happy that it doesn't cause her any angst.  She remains happy, smiling; she is oblivious to stressful events, to anger, to sorrow. Her childlike innocence carries her through her waking hours as I struggle to protect her from those things that concern me.  Where once she was, I am now.  We have traded places.  The transition, the shifting of roles is unspoken and unexpected.  Little by little, moment by moment, day by day...I have become her protector, her champion, her care giver.  I see to her survival, her remaining happiness, her comfort, her protection.

"Yes," I say with relief to those who ask  "My mother is okay today.