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Lost Mother's Day Memories
by Tim Herrera
Tim's Family room
Mother’s Day is almost here and the one gift I’d like my mother to have is something I can’t give her. I’d like her to have some memories of past Mother’s Days. I’d like her to fondly recall all of the handmade cards messily cut from construction paper, necklaces fashioned from stale macaroni noodles, tiny and smudged handprint artwork.
But no one can give her any of those gifts.
She doesn’t remember handwritten poems, crayon self-portraits and World’s Greatest Mother coffee mugs. She has no memory of breakfast in bed or lopsided cakes lathered with frosting. Alzheimer’s Disease has robbed my mother of those memories. No matter what anyone does or says, those memories will never come back to her.
My mom can’t recall any Mother’s Day songs my sister and I ever penned and performed. She doesn’t remember if we ever cleaned the house without being asked, made dinner as a surprise, or tidied up the disaster area of a kitchen afterwards.
This cruel disease clouds her mind and erases those types of recollections.
She doesn’t remember me, or my name, or who I am to her. She looks at me with a hint of familiarity in her gaze, as if she vaguely recognizes me. She can kind of place the face, but she can’t recall the name. She doesn’t understand that I am her son. She doesn’t understand what a son is.
This horrible disease has melted away her memory.
Mom lives in Phoenix, in an assisted living home, about ten minutes from my sister’s house. Mom needs around the clock care and attention, something my sister could not provide any more. My sister and I cried when Mom moved into her new place.
“I feel like I’ve failed,” my sister said that day. “You didn’t fail,” I told her. “You succeeded in finding the best possible place for her.”
I visited Mom just a few weeks ago. She knew that I was there, but she didn’t know who I was. She didn’t drink the chocolate milk shake I brought her. She wouldn’t even munch on a cracker. For the most part, she stared straight ahead and mumbled sentences and phrases that had meaning only to her. Once in a while Elena, the woman running the assisted living home, walked by Mom, kissed her on the head and said “I love you, Margie.” Sometimes Mom smiled and squeezed Elena’s hand for a few seconds.
When I left, I kissed Mom on the cheek and hugged her. She hugged back, like she was embracing a stranger.
“Margie, wave goodbye to your family,” Elena urged her. My sister and I waved as we walked out. Without even a glance in our direction, Mom continued shuffling off to her bedroom. She didn’t know we were leaving. She didn’t know we were there. She didn’t know us.
If there was one thing that I could give my mother it would be a warm memory of a past Mother’s Day, something involving burned toast, wilted flowers snatched from the nearby woods and tossed in a plastic cup, anything.
Those memories now belong to me and my sister. Our mother gave them to us. Nice present, Mom.
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Tim Herrera is a nationally recognized family writer and the author of "I'm Their Dad! Not Their Babysitter!" and "Where the Dust Never Settles". His e-mail address is
thedadof4@yahoo.com and his website - proudly built without his children's help - is
www.timherrera.com.
(E-zines & publications: please contact Tim if you run his stuff so he can download clips. Thanks you!)
This article provided by the Family Content Archives at: http://www.Family-Content.com
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