Alzheimer’s being the conniving thieving bitch that it is, my mother wasn’t herself in the final years of her life. The woman I visited in the Alzheimer’s special care unit was a stranger wearing my mother’s skin but not much else, like the invasion of the body snatchers had taken place, month after month beneath the surface, until one day we looked and the woman we knew was gone, replaced by some alien being. An imposter. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. She died back in 2012. Don’t worry; I won’t be getting maudlin on you. My real mother–not that stranger in a wheel chair, head nodding on her shoulder–is who I want to think about today. My real mother —Enid Maude Good nee Hayden, a prim, old-fashioned name, perhaps the only thing about her I didn’t love— was British-born and had a lovely London lilt to her voice her whole life even though she left England in the mid-1950’s. I suppose at thirty, her vocal patterns were already frozen in place. Sounding like a cross between
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You made me cry!
ReplyDeleteBless you for pouring your heart into the lives of these little ones.
Ahhh, what a tender story that leaves my heart heavy! I am a mother and I don't want to fathom such things ever with my children. They are grown now, but still a mom can't bear to see her kids not well. I remember the anguish I felt when mine would got a common cold. Anything more serious than that would no doubt rip my heart out of my chest. Truly moving words. Welcome to the A2Z challenge!
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written. I worked with families of children with developmental delays up until my daughter was born. So much of this is achingly familiar.
ReplyDeleteGood luck with the rest of the challenge!
Daryl