Miss Congeniality

Mom and I are watching “Snowmen” while I feed her dinner. “Get over here,” she demands, as I stand by the bed with my plate of food. “Let me see that dish.”

I hold the dish up for her to see. She reaches for it, and I pull it away.

“I want to see that,” she insists.

“Well, I don’t want you to get your hands all over my food,” I respond. I offer her a peanut butter cracker sandwich.

“I want some of that,” she responds.

“It’s cauliflower,” I counter. “You don’t like cauliflower.”

She gives me dagger eyes. “You should be ashamed… because of your cheating and manipulating,” she says.

In my best measured tones, I say, “I am not cheating and manipulating. I am giving you peanut butter and crackers.”

She takes the little sandwich and pokes it into her mouth. I go to my daughter’s room.

“Will you hug me?” I ask, and tell her what happened.

“You didn’t cheat and manipulate. She’s out of touch with reality. You are taking care of her.”

Of course I know this, but it is good to hear someone else say it.

“I don’t know if anyone else would understand how I’m feeling right now,” I say, staring at the greenery outside the window without seeing it.

“I bet a lot of people feel this way,” my daughter observes, not missing a beat. “Lots of people are taking care of people with Alzheimer’s.”

She is right. Hundreds of thousands. By themselves, with a spouse or siblings, with community support or without it. They would understand.

“Maybe you should join a support group,” she suggests.

Maybe I should. And yet, I don’t really want to be talking and thinking about my mother quite so much. I don’t want Alzheimer’s to eat up my life as well as Mom’s. Maybe they would understand that too. I hope so.