At Home

Though my mother loses her ability to fully comprehend newspaper stories and magazine articles, she flips through reading material every day to look at the pictures and pick out words that are still familiar.  She tries to show that she can still read, and when she finds something she thinks is interesting, she passes the page to me and points at the text.  This is her routine every time she sees the word “Alzheimer’s.”  Sometimes she reads as much of the story out loud as she can, but more and more she points and lets me read it to her.  I nod appreciatively and say, “That’s a good article you found.”  She points to the text again and then flips through more pages.

During the course of a day, she scans every page of the newspaper, several old magazines, new mail, and anything else that she doesn’t remember looking at the day before.

On one of my visits, as I am getting ready to leave, my mother grabs my arm and pulls me into the kitchen.  We are the only two in the house, but she leans in close and whispers, “I need to talk to you,” as if someone will overhear her.  

Pausing to zip up my coat, I reply in a normal tone, “Sure.  What’s up?”

She hesitates, pursing her lips and blinking steadily.  She reaches across the kitchen table and pulls some brightly colored papers from the napkin holder.  She places three brochures in front of me and spreads them out.  White-haired seniors with shiny glasses and perfect dentures smile up at us from the pamphlets.  

Her hand waivers on the last brochure about retirement homes.  Without looking up, she says softly and evenly, “He doesn’t want me any more.”

Her words pull all the oxygen from my lungs and force my heart to skip a beat.  Time slows to almost a standstill as I contemplate a good response.  And I need a solid reply--to say nothing would affirm her fear; yet silence almost becomes my answer as I struggle to catch my breath.  We both know my father plans ahead, but planning for a nursing home is never easy to discuss, and I don’t think we are ready for that yet. 

“Mom,” I swallow hard, trying to convince her, “don’t think that.  I’m sure he’s just got these things for Grandpa.”

She continues to stare at the geriatric residents smiling back at her, still clearly unconvinced by my reasoning.

I scoop up the brochures and stuff them under the napkin holder.  “Besides,” I say, resting my hands on her shoulders until she looks me in the eye, “if this is what Dad thinks, then I will take you to live with me.  You are always going to be part of our family.”

She nods her head slowly and returns her gaze to the napkin holder.

***

The next time I visit, I ask my father about the brochures while he is paying bills at his desk.  He checks to make sure my mother is out of hearing range, then gives an exhausted sigh.  

“I went around to a few places in town just to see what they had to offer,” he explains in a low voice.  “I want to keep Carol home as long as possible, but they say that we should have a plan for when the time comes.”  He pauses for a moment before adding, “But none of them can accommodate your mother because she is too young for Medicare.  This is why I need to explore our options now, while there’s time.”

“That’s what I thought,” I reply, keeping an eye on the door, “but you might want to explain those brochures to Mom.  She saw them on the table and thought you were planning to send her away.”

He closes his eyes and sighs again, this time slowly and deeply.  This is a situation that he just cannot win, and this new revelation adds more weight to his already burden-heavy shoulders.  

“I guess I’ll just have to make sure I hide those things better,” he eventually mutters.