Mom

So the other day I took my mother for a drive, just to get her out of the house and give her a change of scenery.

I drove down to the beach, to Robert Moses State Park.    I chose Robert Moses because it's a pretty ride.  There's a huge bridge that takes you across the Great South Bay from Bay Shore to Captree Island, a drawbridge that connects Captree Island to Jones Island,  and a third bridge that connects Jones Island to Fire Island.  When you're crossing the bridges you get excellent views of the water and the barrier islands.

When you get to Robert Moses, there's a lovely water tower.  It's not as nice as the water towe at Jones Beach, but it's interesting nevertheless.    You can see the Coast Guard Station and the Fire Island Lighthouse -- it was overcast that day, and we could see the light flashing against the gray clouds above us.  While the dunes separate the parking lots from the beach, there are gaps where you can see the water.  We saw people on the beach, we saw seagulls in the parking lot, we saw geese on the side of the road.

And my mother said to me:  "I've never been here before, I'm glad we came."

Sigh.  Long ago, when I was in college, I had a summer job at Robert Moses, and she used to drive me to work.

My sister took her for a ride to Robert Moses several times during the summer.  She doesn't remember.

The other day she asked Jen, "What grade are you in now?"  Jen is 26, a college graduate with a full time job.

And the conversation a few nights ago:  "No, Mom, we don't have to go home.  We are home.  This is your house.  You've lived here for 50 years.  No, you don't live there anymore, you sold that house fifty years ago.  I'm your daughter.  H is my sister and your daughter.  F and A are my sisters and your daughters.   No, Jen is my daughter and your granddaughter, and she's upstairs sleeping.  Becca is my daughter and your granddaughter, and she's in her apartment in the city.  No, Daddy died two years ago.  No, your mother isn't here, she died 20 years ago..."

And five minutes later, the same conversation.  And five minutes later, a third go-round.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Many dementia patients get frustrated, angry and upset when they have trouble thinking, understanding and remembering.  That was my father.  He had days when he was furious at the world as he felt his mind slip away from him.

 But my mother seems content, even happy, most of the time.

For some reason I was thinking about Rosh HaShanah 2015.  My father was in the hospital, in the final stages of his illness.  He would die just a few weeks later.  We didn't have a holiday celebration that year, but the young Rabbi from the Chabad came by, gave us apples and honey, offered to blow the shofar (we said no, the noise would disturb my father), and promised to say a mishaberech, a prayer of healing, for my father.

My mother was starting to exhibit the signs of dementia, but she was still the person she'd always been.

Two years later, she is so frail, so fragile, so lost.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that prepares you to deal with this kind of change in your parents.