Becalmed

I've escaped. Run off to my own life. It feels surprisingly good. After a sobering Thanksgiving with Mom, I have the need to be away. Coward that I am, I can't tell her so. I wait and call her from the island--Friday night, with a glass of bubbly in hand, and at least one body of water (Puget Sound) and 150 miles between us. I tell her--"I've gone to the cabin Mom...just for a few days." Mom says nothing. Talking on the phone, it's hard to tell what she's heard, when she's understood. There's no body language to read--no vacant eyes to refocus on mine, no neck to realign into my line of sight. Nothing to test for a live connection.

I read (two entire novels), slow cook a meal (roasted chicken with red bell peppers), stay up late, get up late, don't go for a walk or run. I do everything I don't in my other life, my life with Mom.

I don't even think about Mom.

On the flight home, I watch San Juan Island disappear through the glass. Folds of clouds obscure Cattle Pass. South Beach swims in a high tide. We pass one freighter on the way back--a barge pulled by a tug. We're too high up to identify the load, despite flying 500 feet above the Sound. It could be anything--logs from Bellingham, containers bound for the port of Seattle. Anything, but going somewhere.

Eerie plasma-like clouds follow us south, trailing and swirling like the tendrils of an egg poached to havoc by an inexpert hand. Just over Whidby, a portal opens up--blue sky beams down on what's below. Warm in this temporary sun, we pass forests, farm houses, cars driving, cars parked. Life moving on. Safe in my cocoon of flight, I feel none of this. This many feet above the ground, the world moves but I'm not in it. An illusion, it seems--to be stationary, becalmed in the sky when in fact we're moving faster than most cars can drive.

Over Seattle, I look for the Mirabella, a fortress-like construction between I-5 and Lake Union. From the air it's a castle, four towers guarding its four corners. I don't even wonder what Mom's doing. Tomorrow I will get the blow by blow from Lorna--what Mom ate, how she slept, when she cried, how many babies (BMs) she birthed.

Right now, I'm just content to do nothing. Watch the world move while I stand still.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

three tall women

Today we visit the Burke, a long awaited adventure, canceled more than once. It's an exhibit of Antarctica that lures us in. Mom, Jennifer, Lorna and I learn all kinds of interesting facts like--the ice at Antarctica is 2 miles thick. Or, summer in the Antarctic is October through February. Or, 250,000 million years ago the Antarctic was vegetated with ferns and beech tress--incredible! Or, it hasn't precipitated in Dry Valley, Antarctic for two million years--neither snow or rain. We look at photographs of penguins. The King penguins are our favorite, bushy brown creatures with hair cascading their bodies like Cousin It. We touch whale bones. We goggle butterflies and moths. After looking at one particularly intriguing specimen, Jennifer says to Mom--"Can you say this twice Dorin--hawk moth hawk moth." We all giggle, as the "k" and the "m" get stuck on Jennifer's tongue. It's a tongue twist. We all give it a try, our mouths opening and shutting like guppies groping for our next feeding.

Two hours later, we sit exhausted in the Burke Museum Cafe. Craning our necks while strolling between displays seems to take the energy out of us. It's been years since I've been here. Not since college days. I don't remember the lush wood paneling, a loan from the department of architecture, the placard reads. Eighteenth-century French. The panels are waxed pine with murals that appear to be Fragonard or Watteau look-a-likes. We all order hot drinks as we admire the murals--Mom and Lorna get cocoa, I get Chamomile tea and Jennifer gets coffee.

"Have you experienced discrimination in the work workforce?" I ask Jennifer. We've been talking about woman and work and in particular about sexism in the workplace--topics my students have been grappling with this week in class. I explain how many of the young women in my classes have no experience with sexism in the workforce, and hence don't see the need for structural and social changes to promote an equal playing field for working women, particular working women with marriages, families. One student offered the experience of her aunt, saying--"She made it as a partner in her law firm, so other women can do it too."

Jennifer doesn't answer my question but says this, revealing her philosophy about the workplace--"Women need to seize power and bend it to their own purposes." Jennifer's a take charge woman--driven and successful. I admire what she's made of herself. Her comment brings to mind the age old dilemma concerning how to effect change in the world--work within the structure via current power relations or work outside the structure, trying to dismantle power relations. Jennifer's method promises individual success at the expense of reinforcing the strictures that produce discrimination to begin with. I decide not to mention this.

"It seems generational," I add. Women at the turn of the twentieth century didn't expect to 'have it all', referring to the expectation in 2009 that women can raise a family and have a meaningful career. Jennifer herself is thinking of getting pregnant, but she chooses not to disclose this.

Mom's been following our words, her head bobbling back and forth between Jennifer and me. Just when the conversation's getting interesting, Jennifer notices the time--Larry will be out front waiting for us.

I hear a sigh fall from Mom's direction--"Haaaaaaaaaa..." she says. We all turn to look at her. "Can't we...can't we go on...you know...with this?"

Wow, I think to myself, Mom still has her thinking brain, buried somewhere inside the coffin of her body. We've been having just the kind of conversation Mom would have relished in the past, when her tongue said what she thought.

"Sure," I say back to Mom. "We can talk about this later, next time we meet."

Mom nods her head "Yes" as we gather our coats and umbrellas to leave.

Back at the Mirabella, I can't resist returning to the topic of marriage and family. We have an hour before dinner, so I ask Mom--"Why didn't you marry again, after Dad died?"

Instead of a direct answer, she tilts her head back and croons--"Crazy!"

"What...crazy to marry?" I ask her.

Lorna spreads wide her arms and says--"Want to be freeeeeeeee."

All three of us laugh at this. It's a loud, knowing kind of sound that escapes between us. Like a whistle or a bell. Requires no explanation.

"But you're glad you married, right Mom?"

Mom doesn't answer and instead adds--"Never a time...you know...when I felt...just can't go on."

Mom's answer is startling, not what I expect. From the outside looking in, my parent's marriage seemed precarious, particularly in the years right before my father died--all the traveling he did, all the lonliness he suffered, alchohol his only refuge. Surely he must have felt this, not being able to "go on." I think of my own marriage, how there were more than a few times when I thought I "just can't go on." And yet somehow you do, that is until the day you don't.

"The one thing he was..." Mom continues, "when we ...when he and I weren't wonderfully happy...the thing...the thing was...maybe he'd like to be somewhere else...start over again."

"What do you mean Mom?"

"He'd never....never....you know...leave."

Never is a big word, not something I'd use in relation to another human, not even my father. People surprise me, continually, and usually not for the better. That my father returned each weekend, after a week of being on the road to Houston or Dallas or Denver always amazed me. I wondered why he came home, what there was about home that he needed. What happened to my parents? What happened to those years when they stayed up late and drank coffee far into the night, laughing, sharing confidences?

Three Tall Women--a favorite play of mine. Women who stayed in difficult marriages. Two of them working women, two of them with children. Three generations of women. None would marry again.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

santa baby

I bring flowers for Mom today--a gorgeous bouquet of "green" mums and sunflowers. I arrange them in a clear glass vase while Mom gets changed out of her wet Depends and is transferred to her bed. Mom's tired or maybe more accurately she'd tired of being where she is.

When her nurse's aid has left, Mom barely has a word to say. When I show her the eclairs I've brought from Le Panier, she hardly notices their delicate pink frosting or the chocolate swirls that decorate their top-side. When I ask her what she did today, she says--"Nothing." Mulu confirms Mom had no visitors, but that they did do her exercises. I ask Mom how she's feeling and she says--"Okay."

Soon it's apparent Mom would rather settle back into her movie, the one that she and Mulu were watching before I came--it's about the ghosts of Christmas's past. Neither Mom nor Mulu have any idea about the title of the film and I don't recognize any of the actors/actresses. I come in near the end of the film, just in time to see the final struggle where the "ghost of Christmas past" is ousted from his job as keeper of the past and a new ghost is appointed--the blond heroine of the movie who must regrettably leave her new found companion, the non-ghost hero of the movie, in order to do her job for the future of civilization. The best part comes after it's over--clips of mistakes that were edited from the movie. These are really really funny--they have all three of us laughing.

I try to interest Mom in planning her Christmas. I tell her I can be her Santa's Helper. We can make a list next week and then I can take her to the Bellevue Mall to buy presents for my brother's family. We'll get Larry to drive us. She seems to like this idea as she says--"Okay"--but this is all I can get out of her. To myself I'm thinking--what kind of a Christmas will this be? What must this be like for Mom? Does she see this as her last Christmas? Can she even tell me?

Mom and Mulu have been on a movie binge today as the Family channel has their "25 days of Christmas" where Christmas movies are run continuously. Soon, a new one starts--"Santa Baby 2"--and while I don't know her by name at least this one has a heroine I can recognize: she's the left-behind lover in "Wedding Planner"--the blond career woman who's so busy doing business she doesn't have time to be a human being. Her role in "Santa Baby 2" appears similar: a New York ad executive who is such a workaholic she plans to spend Thanksgiving pulling all-nighters. This is about to change as a late night call from Mom reveals that Daddy--Santa to the rest of the world--has had a heart attack. The blond workaholic's presence is now needed at the North Pole to save Christmas.

While I have about zero interest in watching "Santa Baby 2," it seems Mom does. But really, I can't tell if she's glued to the TV screen because she's genuinely interested or if she's just not had anything else better to do today. Instantly, I feel bad that it's taken me all day to get here to the Mirabella--all day to work up the mental and emotional energy to get in my car and drive to her "home."

So I spend the next 45 minutes watching the movie with her, looking for things to laugh about with her. Surprisingly, there are quite a few. When dinner comes--"Penne w/ Chicken, Tomato & Onions, Glazed Carrots"--Mom still wants to watch. So we follow the movie's plot in-between Mom's remonstrations about how she doesn't want any of her dinner--"Not one bite," she says, adamantly. When Mulu and I realize there's not a single piece of chicken in Mom's pasta, I go to the kitchen and request a new helping. I watch as the server scrapes the bottom of her pan producing three minuscule less-than-one inch pieces of chicken--it appears Mom has gotten the short end of the stick this time.

Back in Mom's room I ask what I've missed from the movie--neither Mulu nor Mom seem to know what has happened since I've been gone--it took about 8 minutes to get Mom's three-piece helping of chicken, time enough for something to have happened. As I sit there watching Mulu and Mom watch the movie, I realize something finally--that neither Mom nor Mulu are really watching this film. Instead, they are filling time, letting the TV stand in for the life my mom is no longer capable of living. Not even my presence can alter Mom's lassitude, her doldrums.

I've never felt so powerless.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

chicken feet

"You want to try?" Lorna asks me, shoving a quart plastic container under my nose. When I peer inside I see five or six objects, all of which are slightly reddish in color and have three "prongs" like pitchforks.

"Adidas," she says, as if this would explain everything.

Tennis shoes, I'm thinking? This makes no sense whatsoever.

"You try," Lorna says again, gesturing with her plastic-container-holding hand.

"What are they?" I ask her, trying to gain myself some time. One of the pleasures of Mom's incapacitation is Lorna's cooking....but it is also one of it's downsides as sometimes I feel required to eat (out of politeness) that which I do not want. Today may be one of those days.

"Chicken feet," she says with a cackle that's almost a giggle.

"They're what?" I say back to her with incredulity.

"You know....the feet of the chicken," she says with her particular Filipino emphasis.

As I look back down into the belly of her proffered dish I see that's indeed what she is offering--the three-pronged objects in sight are each either a left and a right foot from a now-dead-chicken. This thought alone--of chicken with decapitated feet--makes my stomach roil, not to mention the idea of eating one of these 'delicacies'.

'Hmm..." I manage to say, "how interesting," a word, which my students have pointed out, can point to a bevy of different conclusions. In an effort to stall for more time I ask her--"How do you prepare these...these...feet."

Lorna smiles then, happy to talk about her hard-won cooking experience. "Ketchup, soy sauce, pepper, salt...then fry them in a pan."

Things are not looking any better on the chicken feet front.

"You try?" Lorna says again and then adds, "You be a good Filipino." referring to the fact that I have tried and generally liked most everything Lorna has offered me. The question has only been how much oil and grease my body can handle.

By this time Mom has begun to clue-in, realizing what Lorna is talking about--chicken feet. She says to me, in an excited almost demanding pitch--"Let me...let me...seeeeee." So Lorna carries her plastic tub over to Mom's wheelchair to give Mom a bird-eye view of the killings. One of the fascinating developments of Mom's dementia is her loss of politeness. Not that Mom is impolite, but rather she no longer has the capacity for playing poker--her face sometimes reads everything she's thinking. When viewing Lorna's vitals, Mom's face takes on the affect of a pug dog--nose flattened and facial muscles curled into a complex weave of interlocking folds and wrinkles. She's a dead ringer, but for the bark.

"Yuk," Mom says very loudly and clearly, speaking presumably for both of us, though I don't tell Lorna this.

Lorna laughs then--a bullet burst of sound that takes both Mom and me by surprise--I expected she might be peeved by Mom's obvious dislike. "Not a good Filipino," Lorna adds then, patting Mom's hand with affection. "Not like your daughter."

Lorna turns again to me with her plastic dish outstretched in her right hand, an offering that can't be refused--"You try?"

"Sure," I say without too much obvious hesitation, wondering just how much I am going to regret this adventure into the culinary world of the Philippines.

When Lorna tries to proffer me two pronged feet, I beg off saying one foot is enough--"I'm already full," I tell her, rubbing my belly--"ate lunch late," though really I hadn't had lunch at all.

Lorna hands me a fork and I wonder how one begins to eat such a thing, never mind why one would eat it. As I turn my fork on it's side and begin to use it as a knife, I immediately hit hard bone. Ouch...I've hit the deep-bone marrow of this chicken's foot. Hmm, I'm thinking, no wonder Lorna likes these things--Lorna only eats bony beef, as in ribs, bony chicken, as in chicken wings. She likes to gnaw and wrestle with her meat.

Lorna observes my difficulty and waves to me with her fork-less hand--"Pick it up, my dear, pick it up, chew it off the bone." I can see she is already doing the same.

While I may have been wiling to try a chicken foot, I am definitely not willing to gnaw straggly strings of meet from a chicken foot bone. I begin again with my fork. After several attempts I discover that if I push down hard enough on my fork I can separate each chicken toe (or is it a talon?) into a series of three jointed bones, minuscule in size. How one separates the meat from these pieces of severed joints is beyond me, so I pop each joint into my mouth, trying to separate the joint from the flesh through a sorting movement in my mouth: my teeth push meat to the right, bone to the left. The result is effective but nauseating. I now have a mouthful of bone and mouthful of what amounts to loose slimy chicken skin--as it tuns out there really isn't much edible flesh on a chicken foot joint.

"Hmm..." I say to Lorna. "Very interesting."

Lorna smiles at this concession, apparently happy I've tried her delicacy, even if Mom has not. Unlike my students, she's not worried about my choice of adjectives. I'm relieved, as I don't want to disappoint her conclusion that I'm her honorary Filipino.

When I look down at my plate, however, I realize I have two more "toes" to go. I wonder how I will do this. Lorna has already gnawed through her entire chicken foot, three prongs in all, and is moving towards the bathroom to wash up her dish. Here, I see my opportunity at last, as I quickly cover the five feet between my chair and Mom's in-room garbage can. When the top of the can flips open with a clank, hitting as it does every time Mom's dresser drawers, Mom looks up, watching as I scoop the rest of the chicken foot into the debris of Mom's Depends and Lorna's used surgical gloves.

"Nice..." Mom says suddenly, "nice save."

As I bolt back to my seat before Lorna returns, Mom begins to laugh, like an old car engine starting: how initially there's a cough and maybe a backfire as fluid hits the starter but before long the mechanics are chortling boisterously, in rhythm at last. Mom is like this engine, her laughter catching as her engine roars at full throttle. I laugh too. There's no helping us, no stopping our good humor.

Some days are good like this.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

love to be that girl

"I'd love to go back," Mom says, "Love to be that...that...girl."

I'm holding up a framed 8x10 photo of Mom and her sister, Marguerite, and Mom is pointing her finger at a lovely young girl who's Mom at a young age. While Mom can remember her dress--lavender with a print--she's not sure how old she is in the sepia photo. My guess is about twelve. Nevertheless, we try to figure out Mom's age by talking about Marguerite--was she living at home when the photo was taken, was she married, where was she working? I ask her when Marguerite married--"1938," I suggest? Mom's not sure but she's convinced Marguerite was still living at home and, while this appears helpful, it really isn't because, as it turns out, Marguerite lived at home for the duration of her college experience, a fact which I didn't know prior to today. Mom lived at home too, except for her last year at the UW when she was required to live in her sorority house because she's the newly-elected president. Marguerite could be anywhere from age 17 or 18 to age 22. Mom is 8 years younger. Before I can deduce anything further about Mom's age, she slips into confusion, asking me--"when did you get married?" "1994," I tell her, as if this has any bearing on the question of Mom's own age at the time of the photo.

When I look at the photo, I see two sisters, softened by a sweetness I can't remember in myself at that age. There's something unknowing about these faces, unworldly, as if life is about constant blessings rather than misgivings. To know that just a few short years later their mother, Berentina, would unexpectedly die adds a jarring footnote, something that could not have been foreseen in their demeanor.

Mom's comment that she'd like to "be that girl" fascinates me, so I ask her--"Would you really want to go back to that age?"

"Yes," Mom answers without hesitation.

"But there'd be all that pain to go through--the depression, the war, your mother dying, your father dying, Dad dying, Peter leaving...you'd really want to do that all again?"

Mom doesn't say anything in response, so I add--"And you'd be without the wisdom you've gained." When Mom frowns at my statement, I explain--you know, one of those compensations for growing old....that we are presumably smarter about ourselves, about life...we know what we are all about."

This is something that has always fascinated me, people who can say, for example, how they wish they were twenty-five again, or wish they were in high school again, as if this going back in time would be the panacea for all present ills. In fact, it would just mean going through life's lessons a second time. Hmm...perhaps there's be a benefit in this?

Mom's version of going back in time is to live the lovely things and forget all the rest, the ways that life knocks you upside down. Mom's an optimist, I'm a realist. There's a lot of ground between us.

Dinner comes--"Carved Ham w/ Maple Glaze, Steamed Broccoli, Mashed Potatoes." There's no conversation while Mulu quickly forks the ham and potatoes into Mom's only-half-open mouth. Dinner is done in less than ten minutes. Mom eats 30% of her meal, 100% of her ice cream.

"What do you want to do about Peter?" I ask Mom after the dinner fixings are carried away. I've been wanting to ask her this for days, ever since my girlfriend, Lora, procured Peter's address and phone number. I've still got the the letter Mom "dictated" weeks ago, a short missive that asks him to contact her because "she's got things to say" to him.

Mom's response is uncharacteristically clear--"We've got nothing to talk about."

I'm surprised by Mom's answer, as this is not the same woman who weeks ago sobbed to me that I must "find her son."

"Bad history," she then adds.

"Why did you change your mind, Mom?" I ask her.

"Can't cover," she says, "you know...the years."

"True," I say, "but at least we could connect now, in the present."

Quickly Mom shakes her head "No" and adds--"Two people who hate us."

Mom's argument seems to be--why place ourselves in the middle of that? My brother Peter and his wife, Susan, are definitely not our fans. Mom's logic is hard to dispute.

"I just want to be sure I'm doing what you want Mom," I tell her.

Mom nods and then adds--"You can...if you want....but not...you know...not for me."

To myself I'm thinking, whether she wants it or not Peter will have to be contacted if a legal action is required to protect Mom. One way or the other Peter will return, it's just a matter of when...what circumstances. The thought of this is chilling.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

a room of her own

"Keep them out," Mom says to me, emphatically, when I walk in the door.

"Keep who out?" I ask Mom, unloading my carpet-bag from my right shoulder and hauling out the day's crossword puzzle for Lorna.

"You know...them" she responds, as if this is something I should know for certain, without explanation. She's waving her left hand at me, using her fingers for emphasis, conducting her own opus. This mobility makes me smile, despite Mom's serious tone.

It's week three of what I am calling Mom's "decline." Her motor functioning and motor planning seem unchanged--a struggle on good days. We still do exercises, despite the fact that therapy has ended. Lorna bats a "balloon" ball to Mom on a daily basis--Mom tries to hit the ball back or more accurately ease the ball out of her lap so that it floats gingerly over to Lorna. We also do leg and arm exercises twice a day, but none of these are as strenuous as what Mom encountered in therapy. I wonder to myself what the effect will be: will Mom lose functioning due to the absence of her therapy?

Where Mom's recent "decline" is most noticeable, however, is in her cognitive functioning. Word finding is no longer her primary issue as, instead, Mom has begun to hallucinate in earnest. At first, I thought perhaps she was tired. Andrew, Mom's day nurse, thought perhaps she had a UTI. But really, none of these can explain the fact that Mom has begun to live in a world of her own for extended periods of time. We've seen glimpses of this world, as periodically Mom has voiced her irrationality for extended periods, most pronounced right before she had her strokes. Now, during any particular visit, Mom will shift in and out of lucidity. It's no longer a question of corralling the words she needs. She has plenty of words, they just don't add up to anything that makes sense.

So when she says this to me--"keep them out"--I assume this is more of her hallucinations. Her imaginings are often long standing, like when she insists over and over again that she needs to go "home" (though she is not clear about where "home" is) or that she needs to go "upstairs" because of "people" she's afraid of or that she needs to get on a bus, right now, so "let's get going" she says. Recently, right after a perfectly lovely visit with Jennifer, Mom spent four hours insisting she's in "Sun Valley" and that she needed to leave, get on a plane, catch a bus, do something other than what she was doing. Her confusions are paralyzing. Not because I don't understand where they come from (or why she is having them) but rather because they are constant reminders that Mom and I inhabit a different world, a world that bears no relation to our shared life together. Mom is passing right before my eyes, only it's happening so slowly, so agonizingly slowly.

"Who are you talking about Mom?" I ask her again.

"Them," she repeats. And when she can't tell me anything more, I begin my remunerations--the list I provide Mom orally when she can't come up with the right word to match the person she's thinking about.

"Your nurse Andrew?"

"No."

"Your nurse's aid (I can't remember her name)?"

"No."

"Your doctor, Dr Hwong?"

"No."

"Your other nurse, Ann?"

"No."

"The 'pill lady', what we in good humor call Mom's night nurse, Cheryl, when she's dispensing medications?"

"No."

Surprisingly, Mom seems to be following each of these names as I list them. I can tell because she's making eye contact--her lids are open--and her body is parroting her language. Her neck and spine shift just a little bit more upright, straighter, in anticipation as I feed her the next name and then she slumps back into her chair, disappointed, as I miss the mark each time. None of my offerings are correct. Now I shift into the second tier list--Mom's personal connections.

"Are you talking about me, Mom?" I ask her, hoping this is not the case.

"No."

Lorna or Mulu then?"

"No."

"What about Eric or Terry?"

Then there's a silence and Mom shakes her head "yes," indicating that I've provided her with the right names.

"But they aren't here, Mom....they haven't been here all week. What do you mean--'keep them out'?"

"Don't want them here," she reiterates, but really I just can't figure it out, as Mom loves it when Eric and Terry visit. I'm glad of this.

"This is my home," she says then, in a loud voice, a very loud voice.

"But you're not home Mom," I respond, "you're at the Mirabella."

This correction produces confusion in Mom's face and body--her mouth curls into a frown, making her lower lip sag, and her hands begin to gyrate, slipping off the armrests of her chair to hang down precariously into the spokes of her wheelchair. She doesn't know where she is, has forgotten that she isn't in her house on Clyde Hill.

"Don't want them here...you know...living here."

It hits me then, what Mom is saying--it's not that she doesn't want to be visited by Eric and Terry but rather that she doesn't want to live with my brother's family. This realization is stunning.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mom?" I ask her, thinking back to all of the times I tried to confirm that living with my brother's family, in the same 3400 square feet, was what she wanted to do. I'd been slow to believe this is what she wanted at the time, finding it hard to imagine Mom would want to lose the autonomy of her own space. This is not a statement to the detriment of my brother's family, but rather the recognition of reality: that many people living together under one roof with an elderly woman and her caregiver would not be easy. It took us months to find her a new house, after the State appropriated hers, and yet each time I would ask her this question she neglected to mention her concerns. Fear? Complacency? Obligation?

Mom and I struggle arduously with our words for the next few minutes, my trying to interpret her abbreviated language and she trying to communicate as best she can. What I glean is this: it appears Mom was afraid my brother and his family would not visit her, be in her life, if she didn't allow them to move in with her when we bought her the new house in February of 2009. In her old house in Medina, Terry and her three children lived on the same property but down the driveway a bit in a separate structure. This worked out okay, as Mom still had her privacy, her home. All this changed when they moved into the Clyde Hill house together in late March.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to me--why Mom spent weeks and weeks during the early spring and summer of 2009 crying and insisting that she wanted to go "home" when in fact she was home. No one could figure this out. It's not the old house in Medina she wanted but rather a house to herself. "A room of her own," as Virginia Woolf would put this. I remember then what Lorna told me recently--about how this summer my nephews and niece were all gathered around my Mom in the living room one afternoon. My mother is saying to them, in a strident voice--"I want to go home" and they are saying back to her, attempting to placate --"you are home, Gamoo." Mom then surprises them all by growling--"Well, if I'm home then YOU ALL CAN LEAVE." All three left the room immediately, but they didn't leave her house. Lorna had chuckled when she relayed this story to me, her laughter coming from grief. Lorna is clear about what she thinks of Terry and her family, what they've "done" to Mom. For myself, I'm not sure what to make of Lorna's story, not sure how much of Mom's response reflected her thoughts and how much was her growing agitation and confusion from the Alzheimer's. But one thing seems clear, she was not comfortable with that many people occupying her home, no matter how much she loved my brother's family. You can still love four people deeply but not want to live with them.

It occurs to me then as I'm readying myself to leave Mom, reloading my bag with water, phone and camera, that maybe Mom has found herself at last--a place of her own. At the Mirabella, with all it's obvious failings in not being "home," Mom may be more at home then we think.

As I push closed the door to Mom's room with my right hip and move down the carpeted corridors of the Mirabella's second floor, the real meaning of Mom's place, her location, comes to me. Each day, Mom slips deeper into her own imaginings, her hallucinations. Without volition, she's found a "room of her own," a world only she can inhabit. No one can reach her there, not even me.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

functional assessment staging

Functional assessment staging (FAST)--that's a mouthful. Apparently, there are seven stages to Alzheimer's, and within these stages there are several levels of functional decline. I find out today that Mom's mind and body are somewhere within the seventh and final stage, what is known as "very severe cognitive decline." That she has had several strokes makes a precise determination difficult, as some functional decline is due to her strokes, irrespective of her dementia.

I am aghast. For these last months I've been operating under the assumption that Mom is a "moderate" dementia victim--somewhere between kind of okay and really not okay at all. I find out about this because I ask Mom's doctor and care manager for their advice regarding Mom's potential participation in an Alzheimer's study at U of Cal, something my cousin forwarded for my consideration. Their answer is not what I expected. There really isn't much time.

Today is Mom's last day of full Medicare coverage. Now we are on our own. She's still here, at the Mirabella, but there's no more therapy, no more motivational talks where we can say--"You need to work hard with the therapists Mom so you can get better and go home." There is no "home" other than where Mom is. There is no "getting better" as her team at the Mirabella have decided she had gotten as good as she's going to get. Mom is as she's going to be. And each day there will be less of her, as her diseases progress.

This insight takes the words right out of me. Makes language vanish. All that remains is an unspeakable grief.

When my cousin Paul comes to visit Mom around dinner time, we find things to laugh about. I'm working hard at "being myself," appearing "normal." Laughing is normal, at least for me pre-Mom's stoke. So I try. Mom tries too, but her attempts appear less than whole. I wait on every word, worried that she won't finish, can't finish. Her sentences, her thoughts just breathe there, taking up oxygen. "When we go..." or "I want to..." or "This is what..." just become preambles for ideas that can't be uttered. Each truncated sentence, thought, becomes proof for what I hadn't known but should have: "very severe cognitive decline."

I never imagined life as such a performance, Mom's and mine.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--