Changing Times

The staff let me lower my mask when I first greeted Mom so that she could recognize my face. As I watched her being brought to the room where we would visit, I waved and called to her. She stopped and looked at me and spoke my name. She knew me! I hadn’t seen her in more than two months, and I started crying with such relief that my mother was still there, that she hadn’t disappeared completely into the fog of Alzheimer’s. Throughout our visit—sitting at opposite ends of a long table unable to touch or hug—we engaged in conversation and sang songs. We mostly talked nonsense but that was fine with me.

I have to get used to the way things are now, trying to renew the relationship with Mom that was suddenly suspended by the pandemic. I must accept anew that she may be angry when she arrives. I desperately want our visits to be more positive, but it may take some time to get there.

As she was being helped back to the activity room, she said to me, “It was nice to see you, but I won’t be seeing you again.”

“Don’t bet on that, Mom,” I answered. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”