Wrapping it Up

'Some images just can't be erased...or can they?'  

That's  what I wrote on the gift tag attached to my husband's Christmas present.  Inside the box was a pair of sunglasses with holiday-themed pencil erasers glued to them.  Skip knew immediately what it meant.
"Oh how perfect," he exclaimed with a chuckle. Then he put them on and we all had a good laugh; all of us except Mom of course.  She remained oblivious to her surroundings and the conversation.  Mom sat off to the side working to unwrap a Christmas mug.  The tissue paper was nearly off when she began re-wrapping and placing the mug back in the gift bag.
"What did you get?" I asked her.
"I don't know," she answered placing the bag back on the floor beside her.
"Well aren't you planning to unwrap it?" I questioned encouragingly.
"Yes," she answered looking at the wrapped gift like she had not seen it before.  Then she lifted the bag, read the name tag and began the process all over again.  Halfway through (before she removed the protective tissue to uncover the mug) she began stuffing it back in the gift bag, once again placing it on the floor.  It took three attempts before I stepped in to assist her.  Together we unwrapped the mug.  She looked at it, took it in her hands, and without comment placed it back in the bag.
My jaw dropped open in disbelief.  I fought back the growing frustration and impatience.  "Do you like it?" I asked.
"What?"
"Your gift.  Do you like it?" I repeated.
"Yes," she answered without enthusiasm.
I could tell she didn't know what 'IT' was.  I asked her and she seemed confused.  She had forgotten what she had opened.  I lifted the mug from the bag to show her.
"Oh!  It's a mug," she told me.  It was as if she were seeing it for the first time.
I shook my head and went back to the gift opening.  It was futile to get my mother to pay attention, to react, and to understand what was happening around her.  There was simply no way to engage her.
Skip was still amused about the sunglasses remembering the event that triggered the creation of this gift.  The reader might recall my earlier account of how I had protected Skip from seeing...um... 'certain things'  until a few weeks earlier when he had to step in and help Mom get dressed while I was lying flat on my back with a painful pinched sacral nerve.  At the time I felt horrible about Skip  seeing my mother undressed, and while, in retrospect,  I thought it was funny, I wasn't sure that Skip found  it  humorous.  I was glad to see that he could now laugh as we sat opening our Christmas presents.

When we finished and cleaned away the assortment of ribbons and torn bits of paper, I looked over at my mother.  She was tying a ribbon to her walker.  She knotted and twisted it, twirled it around the handle and untied it.  Over and over, she fiddled with the ribbon that was soon to provide her with hours of fun.  At last!  This was a present she enjoyed.  The soaps, candles, mug, the assorted small gifts she might use meant nothing to her.  In fact, she didn't know it was Christmas.

I went to work making our holiday dinner.  I set the table in a festive display with special Christmas colors and my beautiful holiday china.  We sat down at the table and tried to engage Mom in conversation but her aphasia limited her words.  Her palate limited her enjoyment of the meal.  Her diminished understanding of words limited her enjoyment of the table talk. After several attempts to draw her in, I gave up.  Gone was the woman who relished the specialty foods that used to elicit her exclamations of approval; gone was the woman who laughed and joked; gone was the woman who was more excited about Christmas than the children.

That night when the dishes were put away, and the remnants of Christmas celebration were removed, I thought about how this Christmas was probably Mom's last one.  (Of course, I thought that same thing last year too and was happily surprised that she was still with us.)  This year though, I evaluated the situation and decided that in fact, Mom was not with us.  In essence, she had celebrated her last Christmas about four years ago.  Looking back I realized that since then she has not really appreciated the holiday, didn't remember any of the things that happened, could not report where we went, who we saw, what was said, what gifts were received.  It was heartbreaking!  How could we have known then, on that visit to our daughter and son-in-law's home that she would forget everything from that point on; that she would never again be the person she was that day; that she would continue going downhill...sinking slowly into oblivion?  My thoughts made me so sad that the magic of the day was soon replaced with an overwhelming gloom.  I began to think about all of the negative things that we experienced as we cared for Mom.  I remembered her outbursts, her frowns, her compulsive behavior, her lack of manners.  It was easy to become depressed and bitter.

I walked into the hallway to turn off the Christmas lights when a thought occurred to me.  Christmas, to me was about love.  I turned to look at the tree thinking about how each special ornament symbolized the love of friends and family.  I sought out those ornaments that had been given to us by my parents.  I smiled as I remembered the many years when Mom and Dad joined us to share in the joy and togetherness that we experienced as a family opening gifts, laughing, and loving. So many years of memories...such wonderful recollections!  There...right in the middle of the tree was the ornament of the cute little white-haired couple snuggled together in a green and red felt bed.  It represented  Mom and Dad.  Oh...and there was the fisherman ornament. (Dad loved to fish).  There was the ornament of a boy and girl that they bought for us when our children were small.  It was engraved with our children's names.  Suddenly I was awash in sentimentality.  I was remembering so much about the family times, the good times, the years and years that I thought I had forgotten.  I especially thought about my father who was forever clowning around much to our enjoyment. My wonderful parents were always with us, always smiling their sweet smiles, joking, playful, filled with mirth, merriment, and most of all, radiating love.  I missed Dad and yet I knew that the memory of him would never fade away, so in a sense he was there with me just at that moment. I heard his voice, felt his warmth, smelled his cologne.

As I reminisced, I found myself growing happier.  I thought about how we live our lives with all of the good times and some bad times too.  But ultimately our memories seem to reflect more of the good times than the bad -- at least they did for me. I took one last look at the tree filled with those reminders and then turned off the lights.  The magic of Christmases past hung in the air as I tiptoed off to bed.  As I closed my eyes I thought once again about Mom and her gradual detachment from the family festivities.  Then I thought about the fact that even though she was not all here, she would always be with us in our hearts.  Now was not the time to bemoan her fading away but to celebrate the years she was fully present. My last thought before I drifted off to sleep was of my mother painstakingly sewing felt animal ornaments for our tree when our son and daughter were young.  Now they hung on our daughter's tree in their children's playroom; and so, the memories were alive...her presence continuing on into a new generation.

Dom P, Ancestry, and Me

They were gathered in the kitchen, each with a special task.  I was told to sit outside on our porch and await my birthday surprise.  Yes, this was my birthday weekend.  I was so happy to have the family here even though I was stressed and tired.  Caring for my mother had worn me out. More than anything, I just wanted to sleep undisturbed and unfettered by my caregiving duties.  While I waited, entertained by my two delightful granddaughters, Mom wandered in and out, banging her walker against the door jam and table.  She was hungry.  Dinner was taking too long to prepare.  My son mixed a cocktail for me...the best Long Island Iced Tea ever!  Mom eyed my drink jealously.  "Oh no," I thought.  "You mustn't have this."  I sneaked inside avoiding the bustle of activity as plates and forks clanked on the counter, buzzers sounded, pots bubbled, and meats sizzled.  My daughter and son-in-law were busy elves preparing a feast of flavors in the kitchen.  I found some rum and Coke and mixed a drink for Mom, careful to go heavy on the Coke and light on the rum.  My son and his girlfriend were encouraging me to add more rum but I didn't think it wise to get someone with Alzheimer's tipsy. I laughed to myself devilishly thinking "What difference would it make?"
"This is delicious," she announced as she gripped the glass in both hands and downed the drink with a rare gusto.  Knowing how difficult it was to keep Mom hydrated, I mused that this was obviously the way to get her to drink more fluids.  Wait...she was drinking on an empty stomach!  The Responsible Me kicked in; "Have some chips," I suggested, hoping that they would absorb the alcohol.

When at last the meal was ready, my daughter appeared at the door smiling broadly.  She and the rest of the family had pulled it off.  They had brought a birthday to me since Skip and I couldn't do much in the way of celebrating my birthday elsewhere; not with my mother's condition.  I had said it.  I told them that we couldn't leave Mom alone now.  No...not now.  She was too confused, too easily agitated. Surprisingly, she proved me wrong.  She was in fine form.  She remembered who we were, little facts about the family, and even managed some quick repartee.  Was it the rum?  Maybe it was helping.

We dined on wonderful food as we crowded around the table in merriment and celebration.  Then came the birthday toast.  A bottle of Dom Perignon (provided by my son-in-law and daughter) was brought to the table.  Okay, I've got to admit that this was really special.  I waited with growing excitement as they popped the cork and handed it to Skip to pour. I watched the bubbles (the tiniest ones) floating to the top of the liquid and remembered that the finer the Champagne the tinier the bubbles.  "Savor this," I reminded myself. Skip lifted his glass to wish me a happy birthday in a clever and loving toast.  We all sipped from the fine Champagne.  I took a small taste feeling the sparkling liquid gold tickle my throat and tried to decide if it lived up to its reputation. Yes, I decided.  It definitely did!  It wasn't so much the flavor but the aftertaste.  There was a certain smoothness, an elegance of flavor, a quiet assertion that fine grapes and warm sun had joined together to make an intoxicating refreshment that was to be relished. 
Even Mom was given a small glass."This is strong!" she remarked.  "It's gone right down to my garters," she quipped and then beamed as we all laughed boisterously at her joke. It was a rare moment to cherish -- a 98 year old still able to engage in the merriment.

Cake, Champagne, flowers, and then presents filled the night.  My daughter announced that we would be attending the ballet. Our son and his girlfriend gave me a kit to check my ancestry with a quick saliva test -- something that was non-existent when I was born. (My how times have changed!)  I was thrilled with the prospect of finding out about my ancestry even though I was already certain that I was a confusion of myriad countries and races.  

The party had moved outside to the fire pit.  The granddaughters had been promised this traditional end to our cooler evenings but slowly they began to hang their heads sleepily. With Mom tucked in for the night, I returned to the dwindling numbers around the fire.  I was determined to party into the wee hours but I too became drowsy.  I struggled to make these fading moments last for just a little while longer. The light-hearted chatter almost masked the depth of emotion I felt.  I looked at their faces...each of them so special, so dear.  I listened to their voices; I watched the firelight  reflected in their eyes, and wanted to capture each smiling face in a memory.  This night, this celebration, this shared love; how special and yet how fleeting it felt to me.  I wanted to hug each of them to my heart and cling fiercely.  I suppose when one reaches a certain age sentimentality dominates all family gatherings.  Our numbers are not so large, and we are separated by miles but it is always the same.  We gather for occasions and enjoy.  We laugh, we talk, we share, we support one another.  This enduring bond of love is ever-so-important to me now more than ever.  I am so deeply embroiled in caregiving and finding that stress has become a way of life; and yet I know that my family will rally round and help when help is needed.  It is the best birthday gift of all! 

When the last dish was dried, the last glass placed back in the cabinet, the last surface freed of crumbs and spills, all without my assistance, I thanked everyone and went to bed.  I thought that I would go right to sleep but instead I reviewed the day, the comments, the moments.  Was it possible that my heart was actually glowing?  It certainly felt that way.  Then I remembered the Ancestry Kit.  What would it reveal?  I already knew that it would report in a clinical fashion and would satisfy the question of familial backgrounds but it would not tell me what my ancestors thought.  It would not show how they felt about each other, what emotions were when they gathered together, how they laughed and cried together.  The births, the illnesses, the inevitable passings of one generation after another; this would be understood but not explained; yet here I was, the embodiment of all of this history, all this love.  Now, on my birthday I reviewed this and smiled with a deep satisfaction. They slept -- the whole family...the eldest to the youngest, oblivious to my overwhelming gratitude and affection.

98 Years Old....The New Two?

Today is my mother's 98th birthday.  No matter how you cut the cake, it's O.L.D. !!!
I wished my mother a Happy Birthday when I went upstairs to get her up and get her dressed.  While she thanked me, she didn't quite 'get it'.  I reminded her again.  "It's your birthday today!"
"Oh!  It is?"
"Yes," I confirmed.  "Do you know how old you are?"
"Am I ten?"
"Nope.  Guess again."
"Five?"
I laughed at this one.  I could see where she was going.  Mom no longer felt like an adult.  If she had said 2 she would have been closer to the truth.  (Sadly, her Alzheimer's makes her more of an overgrown two-year-old than anything else.) 
"So Mom, do you see yourself as old or young?"  I persevered.
"I'm young," she answered without missing a beat.
Okay then.  Confirmation complete.  My mother had lost all touch with reality.  Now I was faced with a decision.  Should I indulge her or should I tell her the truth?  I decided to let it go.  Why not let her live in her birthday bubble for a while rather than burst it.

An hour later a friend called and wanted to wish Mom a Happy Birthday.  She spoke to Mom on the phone and asked, "How old are you?  Are you 97 or 98 today?"  (Uh oh!)  I had to inform Mom of her age.  
Her eyes opened wide and she said, "That's so old!"
"Yup."
Then I took a picture of her.  I thought that it was pretty but Mom scowled when she saw it.  "Who is that?" she asked distastefully.
"You!"
"NO IT'S NOT!" she insisted.
"Yes, Mom.  It's you."
"No.  That's my mother," she informed me.  "Besides, I have a pretty smile.  That smile (she points at the photo) is ugly."
I showed her the outfit she was wearing and then the one in the photo.  "See?  I just took the photo.  It's you!"  Mom just shook her head as if to say that I was wrong but she wasn't going to waste her time arguing with me.  Yes, that's right.  I am delusional.  *sigh*

This birthday, more than any of the others I am more aware of her age.  Mom has slowed not just mentally but physically.  I feel like she is existing on a day to day basis.  She is still healthy but oh so changed, so much older.  I look at photos and videos from two years ago and see the tremendous changes in her face, her demeanor, the way she holds herself.  Still, she laughs and jokes.  She comes alive when we have company.  She smiles when we say something nice to her.  Alzheimer's or not, she retains that inner light, that smile, that sweetness.  I think back over this past year and remind myself that we nearly lost her in September.  We called for hospice and I sobbed over her eventual exit.  Then she miraculously bounced back and I was overjoyed until I began to tire with her decline.  It was difficult to bathe her, to feed her, to take her anywhere.  My work was doubled with her Alzheimer's.  It was physically demanding as well as mentally challenging. I fell back into the impatience, frustration, and occasional bouts with anger.  I struggled with my emotions and battled with negativity.

I don't know how to describe the emotions I feel other than sad gratitude.  Hmmm.  There are other words that come to mind.  Angry joy, ambivalent love, or caring impatience. You see what I'm saying? It is such a roller coaster.  I love her, but go nuts when I have to deal with something for the millionth time. I become impatient when I see her do something repeatedly after correcting her oh so many times; like habitually rub her eyes with hands that just blew her nose or hands that picked her teeth or worse.  (I try to keep after her but cleanliness and hygiene are not part of her vernacular any longer.  When we try to explain why she should use a tissue to wipe her eyes because her hands have germs, she looks at her fingers and searches for some indication that we are correct knowing that we are crazy.  Her hands look clean to her!  She ignores us and does what she feels like.  Then she gets an eye infection.) 

Yes.  98.  The new 2.  You know what they say about two-year-
olds?  They call them the 'Terrible Twos' with good reason.  Picture having one of those in an adult body and you have a good idea of what we deal with.  Still, I look at her and see the woman who is so filled with peace and contentment that I want to be her when I get to be her age.  (Maybe without Alzheimer's though.)

So, moving on...I asked my mother what she wanted me to make for her birthday dinner.  She thought a long time and I thought that she had forgotten the question but finally she told me, "Read."
I thought she had misunderstood the question so I asked again, "What food do you like?"
"Read," she repeated.
I asked her to clarify what kind of food that was.  I finally got it out of her.  She liked bread.  BREAD.  And when I asked what else she liked she told me, "Butter."
Okay then.  For her amazing and delicious birthday dinner Mom will sit down to a yummy dish of bread and butter.  Maybe I'll have some awful stuff to go with it though: some steak and potatoes, fruit salad, birthday cake and ice cream.  Just sayin'.

Happy 98th Birthday, Mom.

Congrat-u-burstans! And Many More

We have noticed that Mom's aphasia has become more of a regular occurrence.  It used to be an occasional anomaly but now, with regularity we hear strange words and outrageous sentences on a daily basis.  A couple of days ago, Mom got up and walked out of the room then returned within thirty seconds.  I asked what she was doing and she answered, "I was reading the...uh...regular people."

I didn't know what she meant.  I asked for a clarification.

"I...er...I was counting the...place-ter."

"What?"

"The plates," she corrected.

"What plates?" I was looking around wondering what she meant.

"You know!  For the people."  (Okay, I was beginning to catch on.  It was close to dinner time.  Perhaps she thought that she would set the table.  Who knows?)

I tried to get more from her and she provided some unintelligible words that meant nothing.  There would be no understanding and I finally gave up trying to understand the 'coded' message.

Just then Skip walked in the room.  He mentioned that his birthday was going to be the next day and Mom immediately brightened up.  With a broad smile she told him, "Congratuburstans!  And many more."  I couldn't help it.  I began to laugh.  The word just tickled my funny bone.  The more I laughed the more it repeated itself in my brain.  'Congratuburstans' .  Ahhahahahahahaha.  I had to get up and leave before Mom noticed that I was laughing.  I didn't want to laugh at her but I couldn't help myself.  There are moments of hilarity that make me feel guilty.  However, I quickly recover reminding myself that laughing is helpful...laughing is therapeutic.  These days I definitely seek anything that I consider therapeutic to help me through some of the rough patches.  The rough patches are becoming more and more numerous though. While laughing over a funny word is something noteworthy, I often must seek the opinions and reactions of others to find the humor in a situation, action or incident.

An example occurred today when I discussed the events of Skip's birthday party with a fellow caregiver.  I recounted the frustration I had felt over the  bizarre behavior Mom exhibited during the party.  I had worked hard to keep it a surprise and even fed Mom lunch ahead of time so I wouldn't give any indication that within 1 hour there would be food at the party.  Skip was surprised when guests arrived with potluck dishes and abundant amounts of food and snacks.  Unfortunately, so was Mom.  She was thrilled to see every manner of snack, appetizers and tasty morsel present itself on the dining room table for her munching pleasure.  I reminded her that she had eaten lunch earlier.  I told her to 'go light' on the snacks because it would be easy to overeat and then become sick to her stomach (something she does with regularity).  I immediately realized that this was a futile conversation.  Mom was glued to the table.  She waited until I turned my back.  Then, her hands flew to the chips, the dips, the cookies, the sausage balls.  She grabbed anything and everything her fingers could reach with the agility of a professional pilferer.  Squirreling her delectable treasure away in her walker or within the folds of her shawl, she would exit to enjoy her 'booty' privately and without risk of detection.  At one point I looked up from my seat in the living room where I was enjoying a conversation with our daughter in time to see her rushing out of the dining room into the foyer where she removed something from her mouth and threw it into a potted plant.

"What are you doing?" I yelled.  She ignored me.  Skip was right behind her though and looked into the planter to find a shrimp tail.  Mom was still chewing the piece of shrimp while saying that she wasn't eating anything.  My daughter got up and suggested that she make a small plate of food for my mother to keep her busy and out of the dining room where there were too many choices and certainly foods that she shouldn't eat.  We sat Mom down at the kitchen table with her spread which she dispensed with quickly and efficiently.  Before I turned around she was back in the dining room.  I found shrimp tails deposited in various hiding places and became quite cross with her.  While tempted to say that she didn't know any better, it was clear that she was a woman on a mission each time I told her that she had probably had enough to eat.  She either ignored me or would circle around the other way to avoid me and then enter the dining room from the other side.

Our son, Bill finally closed the dining room door as Mom was headed in for her eighth or ninth visit to the table.  I watched as she stopped for a moment, then rapidly turned her walker mowing down a couple of guests as she rushed to the other door before our son could get to that side.  Who says that 97 year olds can't be agile?

Later, after the guests had left and the food had been put away, I noticed that Mom was eating something as she sat watching TV.  "What did you find, Mom?" I called to her.  She hastily hid the morsel inside her walker as I approached.  "Mom?  What is that?" I repeated.

"What?" she asked innocently.  I began explaining how she couldn't sneak food into her walker, her shawl and myriad other hiding places.  She gave a blank stare and in total exasperation I walked away deciding that it wasn't worth my energy to deal with it.  I was tired and ready for the time when I could tuck Mom into her bed for the night.  A little while later, as I was helping Mom into her nightgown I asked her to hand me her hearing aid.  She reached up to her ear and gave me a confused look.

"ARGH", I thought. "Now she doesn't know how to remove her hearing aid!"  Then I noticed that her hearing aid was not in her ear.  "Where is it?" I asked her knowing full-well that she wouldn't be able to tell me.  I shouted for Skip to look downstairs and I continued to help her into bed.  When I returned to the family room Skip was holding the hearing aid and telling me that he found it.  "Where was it?" I asked.

"In the trash."  We both sighed

My friend listened sympathetically but also laughed loudly as I described the events that left me frustrated and exhausted. I began to realize how ridiculous and crazy everything sounded to the outsider.  Thinking about it, I began to laugh as well.  Soon my mood lightened as I considered the funny side...the jokes that could be made.  Unwittingly my mother was providing lots and lots of material for our stories, our memories, our reminders of family gatherings, occasions, and times that we will recount in years to come not with anger, exhaustion and frustration but with smiles, laughter. and perhaps a few reminiscing tears.

The Last Christmas Cookie

The Last Christmas Cookie

a

I finished washing the dishes and putting the crystal away.  I wiped away the spills and crumbs from our New Year's Day celebration and thought about the holiday season.  There was a bittersweet quality to my memories.  It had been a busy, chaotic season.  So often I had thought about my mother's condition as I kept striving to create a memorable holiday.  I had cooked, baked, decorated, planned, wrapped, shopped and cleaned.  I had cared for Mom, saw to her needs, and adhered to her schedule.  It was incredibly stressful.  Her Alzheimer's disease was progressing to the point that I often had to stop what I was doing to take care of issues I had not even imagined earlier.  She required constant supervision while awake. I called it the 'Shiny Object Syndrome'.  Mom was attracted to anything new and different.  She touched, tasted, and took anything that interested her.  If I turned my back something might go missing or worse; something might end up with a thumbprint in the middle or a nibbled corner.  It didn't matter how many cookies she sampled, she would forget and look for more.  Trying to put together holiday treats, gifts, and preparing for parties and entertaining was beyond difficult.  As I thought back about the events of the past month my eye caught a plate I had missed.  It held one cookie.  I was about to toss it in the trash, filled with resolve to remove sugar from my diet when I stopped myself.  It was the last of the Christmas cookies and the symbolic meaning didn't escape my notice.  To me the cookie represented the joy of the season, the memories created, the laughter, camaraderie,  cheer.  Within its tiny circumference was a world of emotions: the happiness and the reminder that the Holidays were over. 

 I thought back to Christmas Day.  We had gathered at my daughter and son-in-law's home to enjoy another wonderful Christmas. I looked around the room filled with loving, smiling faces.  There were our two children, our two grandchildren, our son's girlfriend, our son-in-law, our family dog, and my mother.  It had been difficult thinking about how to get Mom there.  How would we pack all the food, the presents, the dog and five people in one car?  We decided that we would take two cars.  Problem solved!  Now another issue: could Mom navigate her walker around the house?  Could she manage to last the entire day and evening?  Would she be safe?  How would she deal with the car ride?  I was glad that it all worked out regardless of how closely I watched Mom, how I fretted about her dropping something, breaking something, doing something socially unacceptable.  I carefully regarded her choices of foods knowing full-well that she was incapable of making choices and might easily overeat, become sick, and end a lovely day with a quick exit for home.  I monitored her movements, her needs, her facial expressions to determine what she might require, what she wanted, and where she was thinking of going.  I was reminded of those days long gone when the children were babies and visiting was a chore as I supervised, disciplined, corrected, and worried over each action and reaction.  Once again I was thrown in the roll of mother to my own mother.  Yes, she was now a child -- a two-year-old.  

At the end of the day, as I helped Mom into her nightgown and under the covers, I asked her if she had enjoyed the day.  "Oh yes!" she replied.  I reminded her of who she had visited, what she had eaten, and the gifts she was given.  She smiled happily and burrowed beneath the blankets already closing her eyes.  I could see that she was tired.  Her mind had fallen asleep hours earlier.  Now it was time for her body to catch up.  I sat down with my husband, Skip and talked about the day.  I remembered to text our daughter to let her know that we had gotten home safely.  She replied that they were watching movies of old Christmas celebrations from other years when my father was still alive.  Part of me was unhappy to miss that but another was relieved.  I knew that watching old videos would only serve to remind me of how quickly things change...how soon our lives move from child, to adult, to elderly, then (all too often) back to child.  I immediately grew sad.  I thought about those fun times when my parents (even younger than Skip and I were now) would drive to our home to be with us and the children on Christmas Day.  Now, my father was no longer with us and hadn't been for some time.  Soon, Mom would also be gone.  She was still healthy and physically doing well but I had been warned that as Alzheimer's progressed her body would begin to shut down.  Was this her last year with us?  Was this the last family gathering with her?  I wondered how many bonus days we could enjoy.  I found myself thinking forward.  In June, Mom would turn 98 years old.  Would she still be with us?  I grew more and more saddened as I thought of the events that were so important to us...those events that brought us together in celebration.  Now, even if we still had Mom with us, it would be stressful, less satisfying, more work, riskier to take Mom out. 

People have often remarked when they see me with Mom that they wish that their parents were still with them.  I  think of that now.  How I wish that my mother...the mother who once was, could still be 'with' us.  The following  morning as I greeted Mom upon her awakening, I asked her if she had enjoyed herself the previous day.  She gave a blank expression.  I reminded her of the gathering for Christmas.  She replied that she didn't remember.  We talked about the food and the gifts and still there was no spark of memory.  I felt a lump growing in my throat.  I suppressed the tears.  Mom was not 'with' us on Christmas Day.  Sadly, Mom would not be with us for our birthdays, for holidays, for family celebrations, for events.  She would never be 'with' us again.  Yet, we could see her, touch her, hear her voice for now...for another day, another, week, month, year.  There was no telling how long.  I  told myself to cherish each second regardless of the stress, the worry, the bother.  

It is now the beginning of the new year.  I used to look forward with excitement and high expectations, but now I dread it for it brings forth a silent testament of how quickly things are changing...moving towards yet another change, another loss, another sadness.  I thought about this.  My attitude had definitely shifted.  It was like looking at the crumbs from the last Christmas cookie.  A season had ended and for the moment there seemed  little to anticipate with optimism. In fact, I noticed an insidious pessimism creeping and permeating my emotional well-being..  I realized that if not checked immediately it would soon become a debilitating depression.  

It was time to shift my focus.  That last Christmas cookie didn't only represent the end of a year and a wonderful, fun-filled season but the promise of more to follow. I would be baking more cookies before I knew it.  There would be more parties, more gatherings, more fun.  I thought about the saying, "When one door closes another opens" and felt a growing curiosity.  What might it be?  What did the new year hold for all of us?  I made a promise to myself that I would remember to celebrate the minutes and hours of the day, enjoying the moments and not miss a thing.  Even as I was thinking this, I noticed my mother walking over to the counter for the third time in ten minutes.  She had forgotten she had already eaten her lunch and now she was sitting down looking for something edible.  She picked up an unlit holiday candle encased in a decorative glass.  It had been left within her reach and now she tilted it to her lips trying  to drink the contents.  When nothing came out she took her fingers and poked at it aggressively.  I watched in amazement.  I almost corrected her but thought that I would let it play itself out.  She tried again and again to taste the contents of the glass.  Finally, I called to her.  "It's a candle,  Mom.  You don't drink it."

"I know," she answered a little indignantly. 

 I could be angry and frustrated by this or I could find the beauty of the moment because it became something memorable...perversely funny.  Perhaps because I didn't want to cry, I managed to find the humor.  I made the choice.  I couldn't help myself.  Her indignant expression made me laugh. I took the candle from her and placed it back on the counter.  There was no question; she would try it again.  There was so much to fret about...or to cherish and remember.  Just like a Christmas cookie, I would consume it and enjoy it.  It was a fleeting moment but just like the myriad little things that occurred day after day,  I would dutifully record this and hold it as a part of my Christmas memories.