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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It's always a different experience, yet still thrilling. Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France.
ReplyDeleteOh, I can't believe that you used to be able to hug the chimeras like that! Love the photo of you climbing the steps too. It took me 4 visits to Paris to manage to climb the steps of Notre Dame. The first visit I didn't really try, but I really did try the second and third times, that queue always beating me. But on the 4th trip, I made it a priority, we got there early one morning and I waited the wait, it's still worth it. I really meant to make a post about it for Paris in July, but I was overwhelmed with other stuff and didn't get ANY Paris in July things done sadly.
ReplyDeleteI know! Looking at it, I can't quite believe it either! So glad I have that under my belt, to show my grandkids when they come along. Here, look what your stuffy old grandma did!
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