as I type this

“I guess this is a permanent place.” That’s mom, referring to her home, the one she has lived in with our dad for two years. Most nights she isn’t sure she’s home. In fact, she’s quite sure she’s not at all at home. She believes she is in a place that’s a long drive from home and she doesn’t have her clothes or toothbrush with her.

Can you imagine? Can you imagine sitting where you are right now and feeling certain you aren’t where you are supposed to be, and believing that you don’t have your belongings with you?

“Well, we’ve got to go home, back to the other house.”

So she gets up from the couch again to get ready to go, or to wander and look at her own things and wonder where she is. We take out her pajamas for her, show her her toothbrush. Then she says she doesn’t need them right away, so we do it all over again a few minutes later after she sits down and then stands back up.

We looped like this last night until she sat down more defeatedly, like she was resigning and said, “My brain is getting worse. It’s coming. It’s chasing me.”

My sister and I locked eyes and said about a thousand words without speaking.

It’s chasing her. Yes, that’s what Alzheimer’s has been doing. I guess it’s chasing all of us, but the rest of us can escape for a while here and there, and she can’t.

Tonight she’s more lucid, lighter, less uptight. Who knows what makes the difference? Everything. Anything. Nothing. I suppose it’s much like having a baby or toddler around. Those years when sometimes they were fine and then sometimes you would pull your hair out wondering, Teething? Not enough sleep? Too much sleep? Thirsty? Hungry? Growth spurt?

Of course, she asks just as many questions as a toddler, too. Maybe more.

She is our mother, the one that listened to us repeat ourselves when we were tiny, and wondered those same things about us when we were having terrible days as infants. This is the strangest cycle.

It was hard, that slog, in the daily grind when our kids were small and unruly and unpredictable. This is harder, in different ways, of course. But guess what? Just like the littlest humans, our mom also has awe right now, like she’s seeing the most simple things for the first time and finding them fascinating. And she has favorite things and favorite shows, just like my kids did when they were small. For Miles it was Beyblades and Star Wars, and for Asher it was Lego Ninjago. These were like obsessions.

For mom it’s Vitamin Water and watermelon, the Hallmark channel, and her old black loafers. Seriously, please take them off. Just let your feet breathe, woman. But no. No, the loafers must stay on.

We pick our battles, just like she used to do.

It’s chasing her, and none of us can do a thing about it. This is grief. Grief when someone is still sitting right there is a strange thing, and of course it’s a painful thing. It’s long and there’s very little room for healing until it’s over, whenever that will be, whenever it gets tired. Whenever it lets her stop running.