Stealing Away

Mother died peacefully this afternoon.  She closed her eyes and slipped away gently.  We will miss her more than words can tell, but the love we have shared will continue with us always.

Her journey in this life is over.  Love you so much, Mother.

Ebb Tide

Mother is in a downward spiral.  Sometimes, when she has a few good days in a row, I think maybe I am mistaken.  Maybe it isn't that bad.  It is.  The doctor confirms it.  Her behaviors verify it.  She is in the last stage of Alzheimer's disease.  It is ugly and will get uglier.

Today she sat in her wheelchair barely able to lift her head.  A weak smile tugged at the right corner of her mouth, but that was all she could manage.  I fed her two M&Ms, but she couldn't chew very well, and the chocolate drooled out of her mouth.  Even the most basic pleasure of eating candy is almost beyond her.

What is left?  Why does life go one when there is only sitting and drooling?  Because when I hug her and tell her I love her, she moans back at me.  I look into her eyes and say, "You love me too, don't you."  She moans her response.  I hold her close and stroke her hair and there is love between us.  Not a slow death, not chocolate drool,  not a contracted and half paralyzed body can take away the love.  That still is, and for now, that is enough.

Changes

So many changes in the last few months; changes that are difficult to write about.  When I put the words down, the changes don't seem so severe, but they have stolen so much more of Mother that the words stick in my throat.

Mother speaks very little.  Sometimes she doesn't differentiate us from her care givers at the home.  At other times, she grabs us and hangs on.  She tries to kiss my hand, but often that kiss begins as an attempt to bite me.  "Kiss, kiss," I say and her mouth hangs open.  She thinks about it, tries to bite and then puckers up and kisses my hand.  I kiss her hand.  We both smile.  But those times are becoming more rare.

Mother doesn't walk anymore.  She sits in a reclining wheel chair, and even then she can't sit up straight for very long.  She leans to one side and slowly slides down.  We prop her up with a pillow.  She slides down.  She sits on a special sticky pad.  She slides down, her left arm and hand clenched from the stoke two years ago.

Mother can no longer eat regular meat.  Chicken, pork and beef all choke her, so her meat must be pureed or mechanically chopped into very small bits.  She doesn't seem to mind the texture, so she eats.  Nevertheless, she has lost weight and looks more like a small bird curled up in her chair.

The list goes on, but the thing that weighs on me, the thing that hurts my heart is that more and more of Mother is gone.  She sits and stares and chews her clothes or the corner of her blanket.  This beautiful, smart woman is being reduced to a hollow shell.  This is not that way any life should end.

McDonald''s Memories

Sometimes the strangest things pop out of the darkest corners of Mother's memory.  She has trouble feeding herself, so as often as I can, I  time my visits around meals so that I can help feed her.  When I arrive, the aides often say she isn't eating very well.  I pull up a chair and begin visiting with her.  I tell her every little thing about my day as I put bite after bite in her mouth.  She smiles and chews, and before long she has finished most of her meal.

Most days, she is not sure who I am.  I tell her I am her daughter.  I tell her my name and she looks puzzled.  Sometimes she will nod.  Sometimes she thinks I am one of my sisters.  Mostly, she is smiles her beautiful smile and eats mechanically.

Yesterday evening I was feeding Mother the ham, potato salad and marinated pea salad on her plate.  I talked about picnics and the fantastic potato salad she used to make.  I asked her if she liked the potato salad she was eating.  "I don't know," she said.  I gave her another bite.
 "Is it good?" I asked.
"I don't know," she murmured.
She paused in her chewing, looked up and said, "McDonald's!"
In her later years, Mother had grown fond of a cheeseburger and fried from McDonald's.  She loved them, and next to Chinese food, it was her favorite meal.
"Would you like a cheeseburger and fries from McDonald;s for lunch tomorrow," I asked.
Her face lit up. Her eyes got wide, and she smiled with a bit of potato salad clinging to her chin.  She blinked her eyes quickly, she sign for yes, yes, yes.

So today, I know what I am having for lunch.  Two cheeseburgers, two fries and two senior Cokes to go please.  I am eating McDonald's at the home with Mother for lunch today. She will not remember the conversation from yesterday, but she will love the meal just the same, and I know it will make her smile.

The Visitor

It is more and  more difficult to write about Mother's journey.  Her days are so similar, and her regression is so painful to watch.  I sometimes feel like I am caught in a time warp watching dementia stealing Mother away ever so slowly.  There is nothing I can do to stop the decline, but I am forced to watch and to cling to the fragile pieces of Mother that are left. I want to gather each piece and put it back, but like Humpty Dumpty, the pieces of Mother can never be put back together again.

For several weeks Mother has spoken only a few words.  Today, she wanted to converse, but the words were so difficult for her to speak.  She struggled to form the word, and a phrase was slow - each word followed by a pause as she formed the next word.  I believe she has had another small stroke.  The left side of her face seems to droop a bit, and when she smiles the droop is more evident.

Today as I walked in, she was moving her milk carton from side to side on the table, touching the tablecloth and repeating the motion over and over.  I've seen this same motion is so many of the residents over the years.  It is a sign of degeneration; the repetition giving them some kind of comfort even in its meaninglessness.

Mother grabbed my hand, and slowly spoke, "You are my visitor."  She smiled, but that was all she knew, that I was her visitor.  She didn't know who I was, or that I was her daughter.  She couldn't remember my name even after I told her who I was.  But I was familiar, and she knew I had come to see her like I do virtually every day.  We held hands.  She smiled a lopsided smile.  We sang a song and she remembered the chorus. She tried to converse by repeating a word or two that I spoke.

When I asked Mother a question she would just smile or say, "I don't know," or "I don't remember."  She tightly held my hand.  I wonder if it is terrifying to not know and not remember anything.  I wonder how it is to eat what is placed before you, to go where someone tells you to go, to have no ability to make a choice or to know what is happening to you.  It terrifies me to watch this, but Mother just smiles and knows at some level that for that moment I am her visitor as she stares intently at my face as if she should know and remember.

Carrying Flowers

There is something about flowers, especially flowers in the dead of winter, that draws people.  It was my birthday, and I wanted a small arrangement for Mother.  It was the only way I could think of to tell her thank you for bearing me and raising me.  So, I stopped at the florist and ordered a small bouquet of pink and white carnations.  They smelled heavenly, and their color popped against the dark gray light of a rainy day.  It brightened my day just to see them, but what astonished me, was that just carrying the flowers brightened others' day as well.

I walked into the home, and the office workers smiled.  "Oh, flowers!"  I paused in the hallway to remove my coat and another visitor smiled and stopped and looked.  "Oh, how pretty!"  I made my way toward the main desk, the nurses stopped and looked and smiled.  The old man in the wheelchair managed a sideways grin and said," Oh, pretty flowers."  I pushed the code to enter the Alzheimer's unit and the lady who always sits at the door waiting to get out smiled and looked.  I found Mother and showed her the bouquet and told her the flowers were for her.  She smiled, and tried to eat them.  I reminded her to smell them.  She did and smiled.

I don't know if she will have any real appreciation of the flowers; probably not.  But they will brighten her room and the staff will enjoy them.  And just carrying the pink, fragrant flowers from the florist to Mother brightened the gray day for just a moment for many.

Like a Child

Mother lay in her bed half asleep, her chin tucked against her chest.  The heating unit hummed away blasting tropical temperatures into the room despite the ice and snow outside the window.  Mother stirred as we entered and reached out her hand to me.  So like a little child wanting to be picked up and cared for.

I sat on the bed beside her, and my husband sat in the chair beside the bed.  Today was a quite day.  Only one or two words formed slowly on Mother's lips, and even her smile was slow in coming.  But the iron grip of her good hand was as strong as ever.  She grabbed my hand and tucked it under her chin.  If I moved at all, she grabbed again and held my hand tight against her as if she needed the security of our presence.

So, we sang to her.  We sang Joy to the World, Jingle Bells, White Christmas, Hark the Harold Angels Sing in uneven harmony, and then she began to sing in a growling whisper, "We three kings...."  That was all she could manage, so we took up the song for her.  Her lips would form a word now and then, and she would look at us with the fascination of a child keeping her eyes on our lips and trying to figure out what would come next.  Then she closed her eyes, still gripping my hand, and there it was.  The faint half crooked smile like a baby just falling asleep.  She was happy and content.  Music, touch and a room the temperature of the tropics.  Merry Christmas, Mother.

Into the Dark Future

I have found it  difficult to write about Mother this fall.  Her decline is more profound and pronounced, and there are days when she sleeps so soundly that she never knows I have been to visit her.  I sit by her and hold her hand, but she doesn't stir.

I spoke with her physician, and there is nothing to do but keep her happy and clean and comfortable.  The disease has stolen so much of her, yet when she is awake, her smile is still there.  But the disease has stolen her speech; she has lost her words. Occasionally she speaks a word or two.  I ramble on in a monologue telling of the events of our daily lives.  She smiles and occasionally raises her eyebrows in response, but I am not sure she understands anything I say.  The sound of my voice, the idea of conversation is something she can connect with at some level.

Perhaps this is the most heart wrenching.  I can't tell how much of her is still with us.  I can't tell how much she understands and how much is just a reaction.  She is more and more like a very small child.  A piece of chocolate, a soft drink, a silly song- these give her joy. But more and more she is beginning to stare into space.  No reaction.  No facial expression. No Mother.

I want to hold her close and keep her from going.  At the same time,I want to be able to let her go.  We are caught in a limbo world that could go on for years.  We are moving through the foggy places of the dark future where we can't see what is to come, and there is no defense for what is to come. We can only hold hands and travel together.

Tangled

Tangled.  That is Mother's mind.  Like a thin, gold chain, some days the knots and twists in her mind are impossible to get beyond. Just when you think you have identified all the twists, another wraps itself around the chain and pulls tightly. Tangled.  And the chain will not give in to even the gentlest probing; the knots only tighten and become unyielding.

Now the tangles are taking Mother's speech.  On good days, she can say a word or short phrase understandably and loudly enough to be heard.  On bad days, she only blinks her eyes, or nods her head or points with her chin;  there are no words.  But the worst days are when she whispers.  She hisses and slurs words so softly I can't make them out.  She becomes frustrated because I can't understand. I become helpless before the tangle of sounds unable to respond to her requests, only guessing what she might be trying to say.

The tangles in her mind and the small stroke from a year ago are  taking her body.  The clenched and contracted hand no longer responds to therapy.  Her shoulder and arm are beginning to contract. On some days her legs work, and she can shuffle along, but now she occasionally must use a wheelchair.  The tangles might be in her brain, but they have long tentacles that reach to all of her body slowly wrapping it up in their tight bundles.  And I have no tool to untangle the knots in her mind and body.  I can only sit and hold her hand and watch.

 

The Thing Is . . .

Guilt.  It has plagued me since we first moved Mother to assisted living and then to the nursing home.  I am not a guilt prone person.  It has always been something I avoided or rationalized away.  But for the last five years, I have felt guilty almost every day.  I've felt guilty when we had to take Mother away from her beloved home.  I've felt guilty when I could only stay a few minutes to visit her.  I've felt guilty if I couldn't go see her.  I've felt guilty when there was a family celebration and she couldn't be there because she was in the nursing home.

None of this guilt makes rational sense.  I can't control the Alzheimer's disease. I can't spend all of my time at the home with Mother.  I can't ignore the rest of the family.  I have to take care of my own health. Yet, the guilt persisted.

But I am beginning to learn to let the guilt go.  After being either in the hospital or confined to my own bed for two weeks, I had time to think.  Guilt does me no good.  Guilt does Mother no good.  

 I am trying to let go of the guilt of not seeing her every day and to replace that guilt with gratitude for the times I can visit her.  I am trying to learn to let the visits be a part of my life instead of letting the visits drive my life.  The thing is . . . this is difficult.  

So today I had the time to visit Mother.  Yet, I still feel the need to let my body recoup from my recent illness.  I had to balance the choice.  I had to consider.  The guilt started.  I looked at the situation rationally.  I stayed home.  But then again, there is time later today . . . 

Dignity Lasts

Mother's behavior is deteriorating once again.  As a person progresses through dementia, there is a time when she may be accusatory or destructive, hallucinatory or aggressive.  For Mother, who at one time or another has been all of the previous, these stages have passed. She has been more docile and happy.  Instead of throwing things at windows and doors trying to get out, she finds comfort in her room.  She sometimes gets confused just in the one hallway behind locked doors, which is her Alzheimer's unit.  We thought the wild behaviors were behind us.  We thought she had reached a quiet state where she smiled and was happy.  That is not to be.

Once again, as the tangles in her brain increase, odd behaviors emerge.  Some are harmless.  She wants to touch her nose to our noses or to the table in front of her.  Some are more worrisome or dangerous.  She fights being led to the bathroom.  She tries to sit down as she walks, and she wants to scoot on the floor.  It is as if she slips more and more into infantile behavior.

Yet through all of this, we and the staff at the home try to maintain her dignity.  But it is difficult.  How can having a teething ring because she chews everything in sight - clothes, papers, towels, flowers, tissues- be dignified?  How is scooting on the floor and screaming dignified? How is trying to lap up a drink because you forgot how to pick up a glass dignified?  How is eating with your fingers because you don't remember how to use a fork or spoon dignified?  No amount of physical or occupational therapy, no amount of talking, no amount distraction can make those things dignified.

Still, there is dignity.  There is the deep love and respect for the woman Mother was.  There is respect for her being the kind of parent who made us behave in public, who disciplined with love, who taught us tolerance for those different from ourselves, who gave us self-confidence, who taught us faith, who taught us to laugh at ourselves and who loved us no matter what we did - good or bad.

It is love and respect for who she was that allows me to gently say no when she bites, to feed her when she tries to use her fingers to eat soup, to encourage her to stand up straight and tall when she wants to sit and scoot.  Perhaps dignity is something that remains even when our mind has gone because we built it long ago.

Fragrance Past

They say smell is a strong trigger for memories.  I believe it is true.  The smell of a gas cook stove and bacon sends me right back fifty years into my grandmother's farmhouse kitchen.

Mother's mother died young, and Mother put some of Grandma's clothes in a plastic bag to keep.  One day I found the bag and asked Mother why she was keeping the clothes.  She confessed that from time to time she would open the bag to smell the clothes.  Then she let me smell them.  The clothes smelled like my grandmother, and Mother was keeping that smell, that part of Grandma locked up for as long as she could.  It was a comfort to her.

Now when I visit Mother, I find myself smelling her hair and inhaling her scent when I hug her. It is the one part of her that hasn't been lost or become changed beyond recognition.  Her smell, despite the nursing home and the institutional soap, is still the same.  It is still her.  I can close my eyes and remember the Mother who comforted me as a child when I was sick or afraid.  I can still smell the Mother who walked in the woods.  She still smells like the Mother who made my clothes and ironed my dresses for school.  I can still smell the Mother who kept me from wiggling in church by resting her hand on my knee.

The smell is the same, and sometimes, for just that briefest of moments, I can have my mother back. It is a comfort to me.

Bits and Pieces

Mother turned eighty-five recently.  She has always been physically strong, but as her mind fails, so is her body  failing.  She rarely seems to notice the changes.  Sometimes when she walks, she will say, "I'm dragging my foot."  She notices that the small stroke took her sure stride, but she just smiles.  Her teeth are beginning to break, and she is getting cavities, but she just smiles and howls louder when we brush and floss.  She ability to speak is diminishing.  The stroke didn't affect her formation of words, but she just can't find the words.  She stares or speaks in a whisper or simple mouths the words.  Sometimes she just blinks, and I must figure out if that means yes or no. Her left hand curled tightly to her body doesn't seem to exist for her.  She rarely moves the arm at all any more.

In bits and pieces she is leaving us.  I wonder when what is gone will be so great that we will not recognize what is left.  Where is that tipping point?  Or will there always be enough bits and pieces to  recognize?

I'm Dying

It has been months since Mother told us she was dying, but that is what she said again yesterday.  I found her dozing when I arrived, and it took her a bit to awaken and focus on me.  But her first words to me were, "I'm dying."  In the past she has been able to describe what she was feeling.  She has described it as being in a boat in the fog or as a sinking feeling.  Sometimes she has said it is like things are fading. Yesterday she could not tell me what she felt.  She just repeated, "I'm dying."

The look on her face was not terror or pain.  She just looked anxious, and her eyes had that far away stare that dementia patients get.  That "the lights are one but no one is home" look.  She grabbed my hand.  I told her I thought she was okay for now, and she relaxed.  I stoked her hair and put lotion on her face.  I told her about my day and fed her peanut butter crackers and gave her a Coke.

Usually, some hugs and kisses and some food helps her decide that she is not dying.  But yesterday was different.  She remained in her "I'm dying" mode.  It was as if she were holding herself close to keep what mind she has left intact.  Yes, she smiled and told me the crackers were sooooooooo good and the Coke was strong and burned.  She said the lotion felt soooooooooo good.  She pinched my arm over and over.  It was the usual routine, but there was something new there between us.

She is dying.  And it is a slow, horrible process that will take years, and she is sometimes aware of it.  That is even more horrible.  Crackers and Cokes, hugs and kisses can't change the process.  I can only hold her hand and be there through the shadow times.

How I Do Love Thee

I love you when all you can do is smile.

When you forget how to raise a glass to your lips and bend over the glass and slurp and sip, I love you.

When you press your nose to mine and blink and stare like a child playing a game, I love you.

I love you when you chew holes in your clothes or chew the buttons off your pajamas.

I love you though you howl and bellow.  I love you though you don't always know who I am.

When you cry because you think your food or your jacket is dead, I love you.

When you fight having your teeth flossed, and you breath can knock me over, I love you.

I love you when you ask the same question ten times in as many minutes.

I love you when your face is dirty and your hair is a mess.

I love you when you throw your water on me or pinch my arm.

I love you when you tell me I am a bad girl.

That is not always you.  I love You.

I love the you who gave me time when I was a child.  Who brushed my hair and ironed my dresses.

You who teased and prodded and made me do my best.

I love  you who held me when I cried and kept me safe from so many of the traumas of life.

I love the you who played with me.  The one who taught me to cook and to grow a garden.

I love the you who taught me kindness and fairness and faith.

I love the you who wore underwear with holes and old dresses so that I could have shiny new shoes.

You who celebrated every accomplishment in my life.  You who were always there with advise.

You never left or failed me, and I will stay with you because that is how I love you.

The Cost of Dementia

My sister recently gave me a newspaper clipping that talked about the high cost of dementia.  The article by Karen Kaplan from the Los Angeles Times states that the cost of dementia is higher than the cost for treating people with cancer or heart disease.

What Kaplan says is true.  I've seen it in other families, and we are experiencing it ourselves.  Most people with dementia will run through their own resources very quickly.  I know that Mother's nursing home and medical costs top $50,000 a year, which is more than her income.  When people run out of money, medicaid helps with the cost, but think of what that costs our society when according to the article, 14.7 percent of Americans over the age of 70 have some type of dementia.  And medicaid does not cover the cost of dental care, or clothing.  The $30 a month allowed for personal care is minimal too.  Even with Mother's income and medicaid, the family still picks up several hundred dollars worth of expenses each month.  Kaplan says that when informal care for paying bills, buying groceries, cleaning the resident, etc are tabulated, the cost of care rises even more.

But the cost of dementia goes way beyond money. For me, despite the financial pressure of dementia, the emotional cost is even greater.  When a parent who has always been loving hits you, or curses you, the emotional toll is tremendous.  The daily grind of having to cajole the parent into brushing his teeth or keeping his clothes on grinds away at your heart.  The pain of not being recognized by your parent tears at your soul.  Watching your parent slip into the fog and not being able to hold on to them is devastating.  And families deal with this day in and day out year after year after year.

The most difficult part is that there is little to be done.  We have to pay the money, we have to brush the teeth, we have to bear the insult of being unknown to our parents, we have to move forward day by day.  We just put one foot in front of the other and take the next step.

Dignity

One of the most valued of human rights is dignity.  Dignity signifies that a person is valued and worthy of respect.  It can also mean the self respect we project to the world.  There is very little innate dignity in Alzheimer's.

Those plagued with dementia have lost much of what the rest of us call dignified behavior. Residents may walk out of their rooms naked or wearing only their diapers before staff can get them back into clothes.  Sometimes a resident will take off her clothes while watching TV or while waiting for dinner to be served.  Sometimes a resident will play with himself while sitting in the common area until staff can get him distracted or out of the room.

There is little dignity in incontinence and having to have someone change one's diaper.  There is little dignity in being next in line for a bath and having to be belted into a PVC pipe chair to be bathed.  There is little dignity in not being able to tell which plate or cup is yours and eating after everyone else.  There is little dignity in howling over and over because you have lost your mind, and you don't know that you are howling.

Yet, even in the midst of all of the undignified behaviors, there is dignity.  There is dignity in the kindness of an aide that says, "Let's go get your pajamas on if you don't want to wear clothes."  There is dignity in an aide saying, "Well, Mr. Smith, let's take you to the bathroom and help you get cleaned up."  There is dignity in the patience that is extended everyday to those whose behaviors are undignified. Despite the indignity of Alzheimer's, Mother and others are treated with great respect.  They are still valued and loved, and by the way they are treated, we preserve the dignity they cannot give themselves.

Physical Slide

 I didn't see Mother for six days out of the last two weeks. A brief stay in the hospital.  Visiting a sister who had cancer surgery.  Spending time with grandchildren and children.  These are all vital and a part of my life, but when these other parts of life call, I have to miss some visits with Mother.  I often feel so very torn at these times.  I wish I could be two places at once, but because that is impossible, I have to rely on the care she receives from the staff at the home to be enough.

The one positive thing about being gone is that I can get some perspective on Mother's condition.  This time I noticed that Mother is slipping physically.  When she was first diagnosed, she had no other health problems.  Now she has had a mini-stroke and her hand is clenched.  She coughs frequently.  Walking is becoming more difficult.  At first, people told me that it was too bad that she had such perfect health.  And now I understand better.  With perfect health, Mother was trapped in the hell of dementia with a strong body.  Now, she is still strong, but I am beginning to see her body beginning to fail.

I don't know if this is a blessing or just a part of the cursedness of Alzheimer's.  On most days, Mother stays in her bed and naps.  She will sometimes sit with the other residents or be willing to go outside, but mostly I sit and hold her hand.  I massage her arms and legs and moisturize her face.  She smiles and whispers.  I have to get very close to hear her, and sometimes it is impossible to know what she is saying.

Her physical decline is just as devastating as her mental decline.  The long goodbye, is how Alzheimer's has been labeled.  It is true, and it is a torturous journey.

The Lesser of Two Evils

Sometimes in this journey through Alzheimer's, we are faced with choosing the lesser of two evils.  That was the case this week for me.

Mother's left hand has become even more contracted, and she can rarely open it and it hurts her. The aides at the nursing home have to pry her hand open each morning to take off the brace she wears at night.  She screams.They have to pry her hand open to wash her hand because she keeps it in such a tight grip that her palm gets yeasty and can get infected.  She screams. They have to pry her hand open to cut her nails.  She screams.  They have to pry her hand open to put a rolled up wash cloth in it for the day, and if she pulls it out with her teeth, they have to do it again.  She screams.  They have to pry her hand open to put the brace on at night. She screams.

The doctor suggested botox injections to help her muscles relax and to release the contraction in her hand.  I thought it was worth a try.  But I was not prepared for the process of getting the shots for her.  I explained over and over what was going to happen.  The doctor explained.  Mother looked at her arm, but none of what we said made sense to her.  I held her arm.  My husband held her other hand and tried to distract her.  The doctor placed the needle in her arm, and she screamed bloody murder.  The look on her face broke my heart.  She was terrified and angry.  She tried to bite me.  She was like an animal who doesn't understand that it is only a small sting.  She screamed at the top of her lungs.

After four or five shots, it was over.  She was fine, and amazingly, she had absolutely no memory of the shots.  She was calm and smiling at everyone.  Her arm didn't hurt.  She was happy, and she had no grudge towards me or the doctor.  It was as if she were trying to figure out what we were all doing there.

But in my mind I can still see her face contorted in terror and pain.  I can still hear her scream.  It will take two weeks to know if the botox will help with the contraction, but I don't know if I can put her through those shots again.  But therein lies the dilemma.  Do I put her through the trauma of botox shots or the daily trauma of prying open her clenched hand.  Which is the lesser evil? Which is the more loving? There are no easy answers to most of life, and there are definitely no easy answer here.

Looking at the Mountains

When I was about eight years old, we took a family vacation to the Rocky Mountains with friends.  I loved the whole experience and didn't want to leave.  But as with all things, the vacation had an end point, and we loaded into the cars and headed east.  I was riding in our friends' car with their daughter, and as we headed into eastern Colorado, my friend's father told us to turn around for our last glimpse of the mountains. "You might never see them again," he said.  To never see the mountains again struck me as an impossibility, and being the stubborn child I was, I refused to turn to look.  I knew in my heart, I would see them again.

And I have seen them again.  I lived in them for five years and have enjoyed many visits since that time.  But as I grow older, I do turn and look at the last blue fingernail of mountains as we head east.  I watch in the mirrors and turn in my seat, trying with my whole being to keep my eye on them.  I don't want to miss the last glimpse as the disappear below the horizon.

Mother gets that look in her eye now too.  On some days she will stare deeply into my eyes and say my name softly.  She really looks at my face as if she is trying to memorize each feature.  It is as if she is turning to look because she may never see me again.  I wonder if somewhere deep in her mind she is trying to hang on to every last bit of her memory.  She is trying to emblazon the images into her mind because at some level she knows she is dipping below a horizon and may never see the images again.  Each face, each moment is looked at intently. For Mother, every day is possibly the last day she will remember.

Turn and look, you might never see them again.