About once a month we drive three and a half hours to visit my mom. She's never there. It's like going to a museum and finding your favorite galleries roped off. The traveling exhibit has moved on.
Tightly in the grip of Alzheimer's, she still recognizes her family, mostly. The relationships aren't always clear; some days I'm her grandson, her nephew (she has no nephews) maybe her husband (which is weird). Although it's obvious she still enjoys the visits -- she lights up when we arrive -- her ability to express it, or to participate in any meaningful way diminishes steadily. This time, it seems the slope has become suddenly steeper.
I can still make her laugh. Last time, as was frequently the case, I got her laughing so hard and long there were tears streaming down her cheeks. It feels like it must be good for her. This time it's harder. She smiles in that look of not wanting to let on she doesn't get it, stares as if trying to dig something out with her eyes.
My brother lives further away and can't visit as often. When he does, he says it makes him feel good to know he still has a mother. My reaction is mostly the opposite: I feel sad that she's no longer available for the conversations, the stories, the commentary. Like my dad, she was a brilliant person, engaged, interested in many things. A reader, politically involved, opinionated, complicated. That's all gone. As will be our visit, a few moments after we leave; next time we talk on the phone -- if someone will get it for her and make sure she doesn't let it drift away from her ear -- she'll ask when she'll see me, won't remember we were just there, the chili egg-puff my wife made that she gobbled up happily, the visit from her grandson and his wonderful lug of a dog, about which she always used to ask as if he were mine, but no longer ever does.
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