NSU Horizons Fall 2006

horizons 29 and sit awkwardly in a chair, staring at her—the indignity of this horrific disease staggers me. Mother was always so fas- tidious about her appearance, and I know if she were in her right mind, she would be mortified to see what she’s become. I guess that’s the real blessing with Alzheimer’s: As Mother deteriorates, she is unaware of what is happening, and therefore remains unfazed and completely oblivious. Sometimes I get angry and want to shake her and shout, “Mother! It’s me! Don’t you know who I am?” But what good will it do? She’s isolated in her own mind, lost to us forever. I struggle with guilt. I feel guilty about not being able to see or speak to her every day. I feel guilty about not send- ing her a Mother’s Day card this year (I broke down in the card store and had to leave without making a purchase). I feel guilty that my sister is the only sibling left in New York to help care for our parents. I feel guilty that I didn’t force everyone to take “baby sister” seriously when I told them that Mother was ill. And I feel guilty saying, “My mother is dead,” when she is still breathing. I have become very philosophical and matter-of-fact about Alzheimer’s and the toll it’s taking on our family: Daddy is in semi-denial and talks about Mother “getting better,” while my sisters preach about how much worse it could be, and my brothers rejoice in the fact that she’s not in any pain. While it’s true that Mother is not suffering physically (and thank God for that), the rest of us are in tremendous pain—wait- ing and watching, hoping against hope for “a good day” when she is lucid enough to speak somewhat coherently. “Bye, Mother,” I said while helping her to her feet during a recent visit. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Thank you, Dear,” she replied, looking at me intently. “I love you.” I stopped dead in my tracks; the tender tone of her voice stunned me. As our eyes met, I saw momentary recognition in her gaze—for just an instant—then it was gone. But it didn’t matter how fleeting it was. In those few seconds, Rose Cooper was back, and we connected. It’s hard to accept that the mother I knew is gone. What’s even harder is the realization that this belief segregates me from the rest of the family, who would never say such a horrible thing. But in order for me to cope with the loss of “my Rose,” I silently say farewell, and continue to grieve alone during this long goodbye. Mara L. Kiffin is the assistant director of public affairs. “Verbatim” is a regular feature of Horizons magazine that presents the unique personal stories of the students, alumni, and faculty and staff members of Nova Southeastern University. Send your story ideas to nsumag@nova.edu . “During the past six years, I have watched Mother get lost in her own home, forget the names of her grand- children, set the kitchen on fire in the middle of the night, physically fight with my sister and father—and forget me.”