Being There

“Is my butt bigger than that girl’s butt?” my mom asked, pointing at a passing woman.

We were in the Hebrew Home sculpture garden, celebrating Grandparents Day with a couple hundred residents and guests.

I almost knocked us both over trying to get behind my mom to look at her butt, so that I could answer the question. I don’t know where my head was.

Obviously, I should have just said, “No, of course your butt isn’t bigger than that girl’s.” But for some reason, I didn’t.

I haven’t been thinking very clearly, or feeling very present, when I visit my mom these days.

More and more of what she says just doesn’t make sense.

“I lost it,” she said a little later.

“What did you lose?”

“The … thing … smitchit.”

“You didn’t lose anything, Mom.” I didn’t know what she was talking about. “You must have left it in your room.”

“Okay,” she said. “But now we can’t sing.”

“Sing? What do you mean?”


“You said we can’t sing. Why can’t we sing?”

“Well, how can we do it without that?”

I shrugged and tried to let it drop.

But it’s hard because more and more, our conversations sound like this. Words that aren’t real. Sentences that break down midway through a thought. Thoughts that bear no relationship to what’s happening around us.

My friend Nancy’s two-year-old daughter Rayne is making new neural connections every second of every day. Her hungry brain gobbles up whatever she hears. Everything Nancy says matters so much, because this wise and growing child is investing it with meaning.

My mom forgets everything I say. And nothing has any meaning.

I’m resisting this disease again, just like I did in the earlier stages, when it started to progress from mild to moderate. My mom was reverting to the past, asking questions that were no longer relevant. I wanted to keep telling her the truth, even when the truth was painful and she didn’t need to hear it.

“How is my mom?” she would ask.

“Grandma died 45 years ago.”

She grieved it anew each time I told her.

I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I just wanted her to continue to live in the real world. I wasn’t ready to give her up to Alzheimer’s.

But I realized there’s no point in fighting Alzheimer’s. And then I learned that I didn’t have to give her up if I just let her take the lead.

“How is my mom?” she would ask.

“She’s great.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

“Me, too. She’s doing remarkably well.”

And that was just the beginning. I went along with every scenario her mind could dream up, becoming a master at improvisation. Escorted by Alzheimer’s, she took us to places we’d never been.

It helps me to remember that.

Now we’re approaching another bend in the road, and I don’t want her to leave me behind. Resistance is pointless, and painful, and lonely. For both of us.

I’ll learn baby talk if I have to. I’ll rejoice when she makes no sense and repeat her made-up words. I’ll laugh with her and cry with her, and we’ll dance in our seats. We’ll sing until the words stop coming, and then we’ll hum. And nothing will ever have meaning again. But I’ll be there, wherever she is, and so will she, until she physically can’t be there any more.

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Some Days

The bathroom door opened, and my mom stepped out. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“I didn’t know you were here!” she said with excitement and affection. She stepped closer and hugged me, resting her head against my chest.

I blinked for a moment, mildly perplexed. And then I let it go.

Our visit had started more than 90 minutes before, when I found her in the TV room, furiously angry.

When she saw me enter then, she gave me a look that told me I’d better get my ass over there. I sat in the empty chair next to her.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

“I’m going to kill them,” she said, ignoring my greeting and gesturing with her head toward two women sitting a couple of seats away.

“That seems a little extreme, Mom.”

“No,” she said. “They’re old enough…. they should know… not to do this!”

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” she said. “They’re just … blah blah blah.”

She was angry that these two women were talking nonstop.

“Let’s go, Mom,” I said.

“Go? Go where?”

“To your room.”

“My room? I have a room?!”

I led her out of her chair and she glared at the ladies. We left the TV room and started to walk down the hall.

“I’m going to blow… blow their heads off,” she said. “Ooh, I’m so mad.”

I kissed her head. She didn’t respond.

She was still holding onto the anger when we entered her room and got onto her bed. Then we called Kathy and told her.

It’s been more than a year, maybe two, since I’ve seen my mom carry a thought from the TV room down the hallway and into her bedroom, holding onto it all the way. She’ll drop her granddaughter’s names well before a clock’s second hand can make a full rotation. But this anger: she couldn’t let it go.

Kathy and I joked with her about it.

“You’re acting like a five-year-old,” I said, laughing.

“Sounds like a three-year-old to me,” Kathy said.

She had a look of mock surprise on her face, and then she laughed. But she was looking away from me, her eyes settling on the wall.

“You weren’t even happy to see me when I got here,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said, not only like she meant it, but as if the sentiment was absolutely correct.

Then she laughed, and Kathy and I joined in. But she didn’t soften completely.

When we ended the call, I opened the YouTube app on my iPhone and played a song sung by Engelbert Humperdinck. My mom has an MP3 player in her drawer with several of his songs on it, but she doesn’t know it’s there. Or even what it is, let alone how to use it. So we used my device.

She used to listen to Engelbert in the 1970s, when I was growing up.

“Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…”

He sang and she hummed along.

“You know this one,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, and relaxed a little.

I let YouTube choose the next one and the next and the next, and we heard Engelbert sing about a man without love and a man and a woman and blue Spanish eyes.

Then she closed her eyes and got a little sleepy.

“Do you know this one?” I asked, as I switched from Engelbert to Tom Jones. She didn’t, but she seemed happy to listen.

She just took it all in.

“Ooh, I think I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

My ears perked up as if I were a dog hearing a whistle. I remembered the week before, when she’d waited too long and peed in her pants.

“Okay, Mom,” I said. “Let’s get you up so you can go.”

I helped her lift herself off the bed, and she shuffled into the bathroom.

She was in the bathroom a long time, long enough for me to listen to two Leonard Cohen songs.

At one point I turned the music down, thinking I might need to hear her in case she had any problems. Sometimes she’ll have trouble with the light, or she’ll tell me she sees blood, and I’ll go in and check. Or she’ll need help flushing the toilet.

But the moment I turned down the volume on my iPhone I could hear her humming away. She was totally engrossed in her bathroom ritual. So I turned the music back up, not all the way, and the chords of “Hallelujah” harmonized with her humming.

When she was finishing up, I was at the bathroom door. She opened it, and her hair was neat. She had probably used her toothbrush to comb it. I’d noticed earlier that there was no comb in the bathroom.

“Oh, Beth,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here!”

It broke my heart a little that in that moment, just before I was getting ready to leave, my mom was light and happy and wanting to see me. But I was glad, too.

I walked her back down to the dining room, where I led her to believe I would join her for dinner. But of course I didn’t; I had to go home.

“No… don’t go. Please don’t go,” she said.

I promised I would be back very soon.

It must be so goddamned hard to live in a nursing home some days.

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When I arrived at the Hebrew home at 3 PM, I found my mom in bed under the covers.

She was facing the window, so she couldn’t see me as I entered. Without announcing my presence, I sat on the bed alongside her and touched her hair.

She turned and saw me, and smiled brightly.

“Beth,” she said.

“Hi Mom,” I said.

I moved off the bed and sat in the rocking chair right next to it. I kept caressing her hair.

“I wanted to call you so many times,” she said. She was smiling. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I know, Mom. I didn’t tell you.”

We sat like that for a few minutes, my fingers touching the waves of her thinning hair, fluffing them out. They were pressed against the back of her head from the pressure of laying on the pillow.

“You don’t usually… you don’t do this to my hair,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Do you not like it?”

“Yes, I do like it,” she said.

“What are you doing in bed?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Just… just…”


“Not … no. I don’t think so.”


“Hmmm… maybe… I’m just…”

I let it drop. She was fully dressed, so I knew she had been up. She didn’t seem sick. She must’ve just wandered back to her room after lunch.

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t you want to get on the bed?

She moved over, and I lay down next to her.

“What is this place?” she asked. “Is this your place?”

“It’s your place, mom.”

My place?”

“Yeah, look at the pictures on the wall,” I said. “They’re yours.”

“Oh,” she said. “That thing is mine?”

She pointed to the needlepoint Debbie had made and framed for her twenty years ago.

“Yes,” I said.

Her feet were cold and she wanted to wedge them under my legs.

“You’re so warm!” she said.

“It’s very hot outside.”


I’m not sure she knew what outside meant.

“Yes. Ninety degrees or more.”

I’m pretty certain she had no idea what that meant.

I suggested we call Kathy.

“Which one is she?”

“Your daughter,” I said.


“Your oldest.”

“Oh, you call her. I can’t.”

“We’ll both call her.”

We used my iPhone and put her on speaker.

“Hi Kathy!” my mom said. As if she knew who she was.

We talked for almost 30 minutes.

We talked about the bean salad Kathy was making for her party, with black beans, and my mom said, “Yuck.” We joked about how all the guests would be farting. My mom laughed and laughed.

Then we sang the bean song (“beans, beans, they’re good for your heart…”). She remembered part of it and sang what she could. Then she laughed.

Kathy told her about the ants she had found in her basement earlier that same day. Kathy and I happened to be talking on the phone when she’d seen them, and she had vowed to call Terminix. Mildly annoyed by her distraction, I had jokingly tried to sympathize with the ants, saying maybe God had sent them (Kathy has become very religious these days).

“Don’t kill them!” I had told her and went on to quote the one bible verse I know about the advisability of entertaining strangers (“for by so doing, some have unwittingly entertained angels”).

“Beth thinks the ants are angels,” Kathy told my mom, “but ants don’t have wings.”

“No, they don’t!” my mom said and laughed and laughed.

Then I started to sing the ant song.

“The ants go marching one by one … hurrah, hurrah.”

Kathy laughed, and my mom started to hum it.

“You remember it!” I said.

We sang a few more verses, my mom not getting the words right, but following the tune. Then we played with the words and found our way back to farting (or, actually, poop), and we all laughed.

Kathy’s daughter Kaitlin was home from her summer internship, but she wasn’t going to the party where the bean salad would be served.

“She’s going to a wedding,” Kathy said.

My mom said she wanted to go to a wedding, too – no, not just go to one, but have one of her own.

“You’ve already done that, Mom,” I said.

“So what!” she said and laughed.

“Well, I guess you could do it again,” I said. “But you have no one to marry.”

“I don’t care!” she said, smiling. She still wanted the wedding.

“Okay,” I said. “It will be a very boring wedding with no groom or church or reverend or even cake.”

She laughed.

“No…?” she started and paused.

“No groom or church or wedding or cake.”

She smiled and reconsidered. She wasn’t sure she wanted it after all.

She was snuggled up next to me when we hung up the phone, and the pillow was pressed against both of our heads.

It was like many of the conversations I have with my mom these days, where I say yes to every silly thing she says and she reciprocates, because she can still do that. She can still say yes.

And that small bed becomes a site of creativity and play and love and infinite possibility. We live in that moment, and we don’t need to go anywhere.

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Sculpture Garden

I don’t always know what to do with a beautiful June day, when the sky is deep blue, the air is fresh, and the sun is shining. But when I’m at Hebrew Home, the best way to spend it is in the facility’s sculpture garden with my mom.

The works come from famous artists, and they’re abstract, arresting, stark, made of stone, or metal, or wood or other natural materials.

“What’s that?” my mom asks, pointing to something made of wood and metal, looking both like a tree and an animal.

“It’s a sculpture,” I say.

“What’s a sculpture?” she asks.

“It’s …. a work of art.”

“Oh,” she says. “Where is its head?”

“I don’t think it has one.”

“Well, as long as it doesn’t come over here,” she says. “It’s not going to, is it?”

“No.” I shake my head.


Appreciation of art was never one of my mom’s strong suits.

The sculptures are arrayed on a lovely grassy sort of knoll along the Hudson River, and there is a path where we can walk, with trees creating nice shady spots.

We sit in lawn chairs in one of these spots, gazing at the river and the trees and the vegetation. This is the kind of art my mom appreciates.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she says. “Look at that … that … what is it called?”

“A tree?” I ask.

“No, that thing up high, next to the tree.”

“That’s a building off in the distance.”

“That’s a building?”

I nod.

A boat sails past. We can see it for a moment, but then it is shrouded by the trees on our side of the river.

“Oh, if I could cut those trees down, I would.” She starts to motion with her hands, as if cutting with a large clipper. “Just get a … a … and cut’em down.”

I smile.

“Look at … oh that water is moving. Moving and moving.”

The waves in the river appear calm, but if you look closely, the sun’s reflection is jumping off of every little ripple, glimmering, sparkling. I wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t pointed it out.

“Those things over there,” she says, pointing. “The bays, the chays, no … chairs.” She starts laughing.

“You mean the benches?”

“They’re benches? They don’t look like benches.”

“Yes, they are.”

There’s an unusual tree in front of us. It has a flat top.

“Get rid of that yucky tree!” she says, almost gleefully.

“Nothing wrong with that tree,” I say.

Less than two minutes later, she says, “I like that little tree.” She’s incredulous when I tell her she just said we should get rid of it. Then she laughs.

We sit for more than an hour, and the conversation repeats itself. As if the words are hanging in the air above us, swirling around, and she’s plucking them down and throwing them back, and plucking them back down as they recirculate in an endless loop. But they are constantly new to her. To me they are old, and I am bored. No, I am past being bored.

“You’re staying all night, right?” she asks. It’s a question she asks me every time I visit her.

“Of course,” I usually say, even if I know I’m leaving in two minutes.

“I can’t. I have to work tomorrow,” I sometimes say. That disappoints her, but these days she usually accepts it.

But this time, I feel like saying something different.

“Who’s going to take care of all the animals if I stay overnight?”

I don’t have any animals. But I say it anyway. It makes almost no difference what I say.

“Oh, right,” she says. “What kind of animals are they?”

“Cats,” I say.

“Oh yes. Isn’t there someone in our family who doesn’t like cats?”

“Dad. He didn’t like cats.”

“Does he still not like cats?”

“Umm … Dad died.”

“He did?” Incredulous again, but with a serious look on her face. “I didn’t know that.”

“You forgot.”

“No, seriously,” she says.

“You seriously forgot.”

I no longer have to be so careful with what I tell her, because even if it upsets her, it will only last a second.

I can almost experiment in our conversations, knowing I’ll have another chance to tell her something, and another, and another. An infinite number of chances, it seems.

Earlier that day, in her room, she broke into spontaneous laughter. Just as quickly it turned to tears.

“I feel so awful,” she said, weeping.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, and then the tears dissolved instantly.

Within seconds, she’d forgotten she was even crying.

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I sneak up on my mom in the dining room and surprise her.

“Oh, don’t scare me. I get scared very, very….”


“Yes… no… very, very… greatly.”


We walk to her room and lay on her bed. I play Englebert Humperdinck on my iPod Touch. The device shakes as the tinny sounding music comes out of the speaker.

“Do you know this?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” she says. She closes her eyes and starts to hum.

“You know, Engelbert is in his 80s now.”

“Oh, then he can get together with me.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “You know, you’re almost 90.”

“Well don’t tell him that,” she says, not missing a beat. She barely knows what she’s saying, yet her timing is still impeccable.

She’s still totally into the blue Easter bunny stuffed animal who sings, “Jesus loves me” when she presses his belly. He’s with us on her bed next to a few other dolls.

I’m partial to the girl doll, with long brown hair, makeup and earrings, dressed as if she is going to the gym. I brush her hair with my mom’s plastic brush. I notice that my mom has put her own gold-plated watch around the doll’s neck, the watch face hidden in her hair, making it look like the doll is wearing a thick gold chain.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s where my watch is. I need that watch.”

She can’t tell time anymore, and the watch has stopped ticking. But she doesn’t know that.

“This little guy is so cute,” she says, snuggling the blue bunny.

“Yes, he is.”

“But he needs a friend,” she says. “There’s no one for him to be with.”

I offer my favorite doll, the long-haired gym girl.

“Hey, big boy,” the doll says to the bunny. “Give me a kiss.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the bunny says to the doll. In the voice of my mom, he’s being coy.

“They don’t look good together,” she says. “She’s so tall, and he’s so … short.” Then she gestures, looking for words, unable to articulate her discomfort over the interspecies quality of their mismatch.

“They look funny together,” she says.

“What does it matter how they look, as long as they’re happy?”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says and smiles.

The doll skips over to the bunny, leans in, and gives him a kiss. Then gives him another kiss. Then another.

“Now, slow down,” the bunny says. And with that, my mom presses his belly, and “Jesus loves me” starts playing.

When we look at the photo albums full of family pictures, she doesn’t know who’s in them. And she doesn’t know it two seconds after I tell her, or two seconds after I tell her again.

All of the talk about her nine siblings has given way to the occasional mention of her mother. She often doesn’t even recall her childhood home in Niagara Falls, the only place she wanted to be in the earlier years of her Alzheimer’s disease, having by then forgotten the New Jersey home where she raised me, and lived, for 35 years, or the little condo she owned for 20 years after that.

Everything, all of her life, disappears. There is no past and no future. No place but the bed and no friends but the dolls and no sound but the music and our voices.

And so we play. And in addition to breaking my heart, it is rich and nourishing and full of possibility.

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I got a call from the Hebrew Home a couple of months ago.

“Your mother fell today,” said her doctor.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“Yes, she’s okay, but she has a cut on her forehead. There was a lot of blood.”

“Is she upset?” I asked.

“She was just a little worried about all the blood on her hands.”

A sick sensation passed through me. I felt weakened, or like something inside of me fell.

Later that night, the Hebrew Home called again.

“Your mother fell,” an aide said.

“Again?!” I asked, and this time fear shot through me. That she should go from not falling at all to falling twice in one day was very distressing.

“Did they already call you about this?” the aide asked.

“I got a call earlier that she fell this afternoon. Did she fall again?” I asked.

“No. She fell just once.”

“Thank God,” I said.

I hadn’t visited her the previous weekend, thereby allowing two weeks to pass between visits. Sometimes I do that to give myself a break. It’s hard to visit every weekend.

But this time I regretted it, magically thinking that by missing my visit I’d somehow offered her less protection than usual. As if a two-hour weekly visit from me is what has kept her on her feet.

When I arrived the weekend after the fall, she wasn’t in the TV room or at her table. Donald was sitting alone. Thinking she was probably in her room, I made my way down the hall to find her.

I saw her standing across from the nurse’s station, leaning against the wall, her hair a wild mess, a worried and far-away look in her eyes, one of which was black from the fall.

She had a confused look on her face as I approached.

“Are you . . . my brother?” she asked.

“No, Mom. I’m Beth,” I said.

“Oh, Beth!” she said, and started to cry. It was a mixture of sadness and relief, and she wept and wept.

“It’s okay, mom,” I said. I hugged her.

“I think I’ve decided I want to go home to my mom,” she said.

“Okay, Mom,” I said. “We’ll do that later. But now, let’s go into your room.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

We went into her room, and she dried her tears. She went to the bathroom. Then I took her to the Sunday concert.

She seemed to enjoy sitting next to me in the large music-filled room. But she was a little less secure and stable.

I was so upset after that visit, convinced it was the beginning of the end for her. She seemed so fragile, as if the slightest thing could make her fall to the ground.


I got a call today from Gemma, the nurse practitioner who gives me a monthly report on my mom.

“Your mom was sitting at her table holding a bunny,” she said. “It’s a stuffed bunny. When you press it, it sings, ‘Jesus loves me.'”

“She got it at the church service on Easter Day,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, she had that bunny and she was singing with it.”

I smiled. She’s been playing with the bunny ever since she got it.

“And she thinks whatever man happens to be at her table is her husband. If only it could be that easy for me,” Gemma said. “Yeah, your mom is happy. She has no complaints.”

Alzheimer’s is like the weather. One day a storm; another day a mild sun with a gentle breeze.

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Three Husbands

Mom is sitting at her table across from Donald, and they’re smiling at each other. When she sees me, she beams.

“Hi Donald,” I say, as I lean over to kiss my mom.

“Is that his name?” she asks. “I’m so glad you told me!” She has an impish grin on her face.

They have their meals together every day, and they spend a lot of time sitting across from each other at their table between meals. I wonder if they ever get up.

“Let’s go for a walk, Mom,” I say. She needs the exercise.

“Okay,” she says, but she seems a little reluctant.

“Come on, honey,” she says, moving in his direction, taking his hand to entice him to join us. But he shakes his head and says, “No,” and so she leans over and kisses him goodbye — on the mouth. He kisses her back enthusiastically.

Their relationship has been going on for a few months, ever since Kenneth was moved to another unit.

One day I sat with her and Donald, wanting to get to know the new man in her life.

“What kind of work did you do, Donald?” I asked.

“MGM,” he said. “I ran the studio.” He nodded while speaking. “Universal Pictures. Warner Brothers.”

“Oh really?” I asked. “Hollywood?”

“I’m President Kennedy’s brother,” he said. “His cousin. His son. Joan Crawford and I have children together.”

I looked at him.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he said, his eyes shifty, a note of bitterness in his voice.

“Sure I do!” I said. Quietly, I sighed, and inwardly, I sort of cringed.

I’m just as happy that he doesn’t want to join us.

As my mom and I walk out of the dining room, the aides smile at us.

“Mariann has a new husband!” says one of the cafeteria workers, and winks at her.

“A husband?!” she says.”Who’s that? I don’t have a husband! I don’t even have a boyfriend!”

She has forgotten Donald before we’re even out of the room.

I was told that the day Kenneth left, my mom was devastated.

Those two were so close, had such chemistry, that everyone called him her husband. From his early days on the unit, he held her attention, taking her hand and walking her up and down the halls charming and confusing her with his talk of business deals and future plans.

“What’s he talking about?” she would ask me, thinking I understood. I didn’t. But none of it mattered, because once he reached over to kiss her, all of her confusion evaporated.

She was out of sorts for days after he was moved. And then gradually, or not so gradually, she forgot him.

“Who’s that?” she asks, whenever his name comes up. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

The fact of the relationship still shocks me. For almost my whole life, my mom couldn’t stand men, especially my father, whom she divorced more than twenty years ago.

But Alzheimer’s changed her thoughts about even him.

“I wish I had never left Bill,” she said in the early days of her disease. “Then we’d be together now, and I wouldn’t be all alone.”

These days, she doesn’t remember Bill anymore, either.

“Who’s that?” she began to ask months ago.

“My father,” I say. “Your husband, well … your ex-husband.”

She gets a blank look on her face.

“You were married for 38 years,” I  say.

“I don’t know him,” she says, a smile on her face.

“He’s the man you had children with.”

She looks at me as if I’ve presented her with an abstract math problem.

Thirty-eight years, motherhood, marriage — all washed away.

Bill died in January, and I wondered for just a brief moment if I should tell her.

“Why upset her?” a couple of friends said to me. With her mother and siblings, I was constantly re-traumatizing her every time she asked about them and I told her that they had died. At some point, it makes no sense to tell a mid- to late-stage Alzheimer’s patient about the death of a loved one.

But this time, the reason I kept the information from her was not to spare her. I kept the death of my father to myself because I thought it would make no difference to her. To her, he’s not gone. He simply never existed.

Thirty-eight years, a marriage, children, a house, love, pain, misery, drudgery, frustration, fear, anger, happiness, disappointment — all washed away.


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