Sept. 1, 1996
Bill and I are going to go to Foss Nursing Home today on our weekly pilgrimage to visit my
mother, a permanent resident of that wonderful place. We'll chatter and touch and try our best to
stimulate her and interest her, but in truth, the woman we'll see is not my mother.
Mom "died" over a year ago when she slipped deep into senile dementia. Thankfully, she does not suffer from Alzheimer's Disease, so her sweet disposition remains a constant. Unfortunately, she has no memory.
This little bit of a woman recalls nothing of her distant past as a child in Germany; she remembers nothing of all her years in Evanston, Illinois, dealing with 3 children and an overbearing, controlling husband; and she remembers nothing from one moment to the next. For her, time is only in the present.
My Teutonic mother was not ever the hugger and comforter that I am (that trait coming from the Danes in my family), but she loved her children and cared for us well. She allowed us to leave home without tying strings of guilt to us. She respected us as adults, never openly questioning our decisions, regardless of how stupid they might have been, and NEVER treating us as "children."
When I go today to the nursing home and look into
that soft, 83 year-old blank face, I won't be seeing my mother. I said good-bye to her a year ago.
She died when her mind died. We're both at peace.
