The mind can be a precious gift
She does not smile and say that anymore. Those thoughts now slumber inside of her. Mom has Alzheimer's, or one of the dementias, and so it's no good asking her about our birthdays any more.
This was an odd twist of events, because I have written many times at other newspapers about Alzheimer's patients. Their plight makes for a compelling newspaper story. Dementia was pretty much like any other assignment, really, until I happened to be watching TV one night.
Now we really step back in time. Back in college, I had to take a logic class. It was taught by Prof. Theresa Crem. We called her "Dr. Crem" because nobody with her old world dignity would go by his or her first name. Dr. Crem was the master of the syllogism, of the logical statement. So if A equals B, and B equals C, does A equal C? Danged if I ever knew despite her best efforts, but Dr. Crem could tell you whether A equaled G and list the reasons why or why not. And she filled our heads with this stuff during a whole semester. She dressed like a mom from a 1950s sitcom, with tightly-woven hair and crisp delivery. She answered every question with precision, without wasting a word.
So about seven or eight years later, I'm watching the TV news. The feature story was about an Alzheimer's day care, where patients go for activities. And the story focused on this wonderful teacher who works with patients. The TV show only referred to the patients by their first name. And the program showed the teacher working with a woman identified on the screen as "Theresa."
That's Dr. Crem, I thought.
There were a few more wrinkles in her face. But it was her, babbling softly, smiling at how this teacher was hovering over her in the adult day care.
That's Dr. Crem, I thought. That's not some "Theresa." That's Dr. Crem.
So I was left quite for the rest of the evening, thinking about the fragility of our minds. And of life. And how it doesn't take much to transform someone from Dr. Crem into Theresa.
My mother used to be Mrs. Neary. Today, she is Dollie, her childhood nickname.
So there we were, on the joint birthday of yours truly and his father. We sat around the table in their Lakewood house. It had been a long road for my father. At 73, he really ought to have a wife who can join hands with him as they stroll around Lake Waughop talking about all the baby ducks they see. But life ain't fair. Life was not fair for Dr. Crem, and it sure isn't fair to my mother.
She smiles when she sees me, and she has only asked me once who I was. My father briefs her every morning, that he is her husband and I am her only son. She nods. Sometimes she looks confused, and talks about her doll. Sometimes she talks to her brothers and sisters, most of whom are dead.
My father and I had no clue, as we sat there, if she even knew what a birthday was. My dad and I chatted about how my children planned to celebrate the day. We talked about how it was our birthday.
And mom looked up. Somehow, she understood that this was a special day for the old man who changes her clothes and tucks her into bed every night.
"Happy birthday to you," she began singing to my father. "Happy birthday to you..."
I joined in. She stumbled over the part, "happy birthday, dear ...," because she could not remember my father's name. So she slurred out something of about 10 syllables and continued the song.
And I don't know where she thought she was. I don't know if she was in Chicago of the 1930s, Los Angeles of the 1950s, or Sacramento of the 1970s. But I know that during the song, she was present for us. And we were there for her.
"Happy birthday to you," we sang.
And it was.
