Wednesday, February 1, 2017


This is the last of my 4-part, 5-years-later series, for now. Thank you all for the outpouring of love and support and kind words as I've posted these, one by one. 

Two weeks ago, the nursing home called to inform me that, since her last visit to the hospital, Mom's health continues to decline. In the last 4 weeks she has stopped feeding herself, and she is no longer walking. She may have another UTI, hence, another ER visit was pending.

I interrupted the nurse: "This is a big problem. You can't treat her and the hospital doesn't want to. I need help." I told her everything I wrote in the last post, and asked her to put me in contact with a social worker, or Hospice, or anyone that could help our cause.

I spoke with a social worker next, who initially offered up monthly support groups. I'm sure these are invaluable to many people, but I've been engulfed in this disease since 2002, and I can't think of anything more exhausting than to show up and drown myself in it with 30 other people every Tuesday night.

NOTE: That is not advice from me! It is sheer, fabricated speculation! I don't know if it's 3 people or 30—it simply wasn't what I was looking for.

What I was looking for was medical and spiritual solidarity during the next inevitable crisis.

I need someone to meet me at the emergency room--and to give me guidance about whether or not to let the staff order a $7 antibiotic. I didn't know how to make that call 8 weeks ago, and she got the antibiotics, and now she's worse, and—crap! Is that my fault? Was I supposed to not do that? Was that what the ER doc was trying to tell me? Did I miss the wink-wink, nudge-nudge?

I still don't know what I was supposed to do at that appointment in December.

Ten days ago I signed my sweet mother's care over to Harbor Light Hospice.

My mother is not at death's door. She is, simply, declining as her disease advances. She now has her very own nurses, twice a week, and 2 CNA visits a week. We have our very own Hospice social worker. They will all monitor her closely, and take their time with her. She gets an extra bath, and lotion on dry winter skin, with a few extra luxuries that the overworked and overwhelmed staff of a financially struggling (Hello, Illinois) nursing home* cannot afford. She has a new bed that suits her needs, and a comfy new wheelchair with a high back and foot rests.

These amazing people will also be there when I need them. They can prescribe medicine and bypass the emergency room, or they can advise me, when it's time to stop the meds and keep her comfortable.

I met with all of them this afternoon at the nursing home, along with the Hospice chaplain. A female chaplain, I like her. As long as I'm spilling my guts, I'll confess that I think I feel more comfortable with a female chaplain. She followed me from the meeting to Mom's room today, and she baby-talked Mom just like I want her to: "Look at that great eye contact!" and she says all of the right things to me, like "Oh, my goodness, what a great job you have done," and "oh, that must have been so hard."

I didn't feel silly asking her to take my picture with Mom, and she remembered my telling her that Mom liked soft things, and she's raced for her fuzzy pillow when Mom became agitated. 

There's an odd juxtaposition at play for me right now: I'm ensuring comfort for a pain-free passing when the time comes for my mother, which is such a grown up thing to do. So mature and responsible, for a mere 54-year old. At the same time: "My mommy! Will you please take my picture with me and my mommy?" I'm really not sure I'd let myself be such a big baby with a male chaplain.

I like our entire "team!" Her nurse is George, and the chaplain is Karen, and the social worker is Deb,  and I don't remember the names of the other two offhand because I'm stressed but it is an incredible relief to have these 5 in my corner.


So here we are again, rolling with Alzheimer's punches. Each new round of decline has challenged us, at times pulling the rug completely out from under. We stand back up, dust ourselves off, find a solution, and then sit back...and wait for the next.

From here on out, I think, we'll be ready for it.


*My mother still has caregivers at Champaign County Nursing Home. I can never say enough good things about them, and I feel blessed to have so many people that have taken such good care of her in the last 5 years. Even when they are tired, or when there is a miscommunication, or when I'm not quite sure where Mom's blouse came from—I appreciate each and every one of them, and baby--dont' sweat the small stuff! They picked up where I could not, and I will always be grateful to them.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

"You May Have to Decide if You Want to Watch Her Bleed to Death" --ER Doc

In December, I got an early morning phone call from the nursing home, asking me to meet Mom at the Carle Emergency Room: she was vomiting blood.

I arrived at the ER just as the ambulance did, to find Mom agitated and clutching her abdomen—but not vomiting. She had no fever. She would not open her mouth for the doctor to check her throat. She had to be held down to put an IV in her arm, had diaper and bed clothes changed twice, and finally fell asleep. Shortly after they calmed her, the ER doctor finally came to me and asked:

"How aggressive do you want us to be in treating her?" 

When I asked them what their diagnosis was, they didn't have one, but wanted me to tell them how far to go to find out. "What do you want us to do?"

They were offering to not even investigate. Was that it? Because then what? You send her back to the nursing home that sent her here? Am I supposed to make some suggestions? How about some antibiotics, will that work? Should we test her urine? Why am I here?

A second GI doctor explained to me that a scope would be one test they could perform to diagnose, but the suggestion came with disclaimers--Anesthesia. A scope. Invasive. And she asked me the same question:
How aggressive do you want us to be?

Well. A scope sounds like a good idea, doesn't it? How invasive it? It's just a scope, isn't it? No cutting or anything? Any kind of diagnosis at all would be a really nice starting point for me, if no one is going to help me out here.

Oh, I got the underlying message all right: Ehhh...this isn't really a life worth saving. Because no one, ever, in any emergency room I've ever been has asked me whether I'd like to skip the stitches or the scope or x-ray.

The first ER doc returned, and, trying not to cry, I made what I felt to be a sincere appeal: "A proper medical decision is outside of my wheelhouse. I understand there is little quality of life for my mother, and I'm not interested in extending it for no reason. I just want to be kind and keep her out of pain. I need some guidance." I write that like I was so strong and stoic, but believe me: I was shaky and squeaking.

 He paused for a long moment, and then breathed,

"You may have to decide if you want to watch her bleed to death." 

So much for not crying—I can still feel the wind go out of me. That's the doctor's advice, based on my question?  Can you toss another option at me? Watching her bleed to death may be the kind option, based on your professional medical opinion?

And then, trying to get a grip. Deep breath. Well. Asked and answered. Maybe I should wrap my head around this. Maybe I should prepare myself  to watch her bleed to death, because if that's what it's going to be, I'm sure as hell not going to make her do it alone. When?! This afternoon? Will they leave me in a room with her? Will she vomit all of the blood until she dies? Will it come out of her ears and eyes and nose and anus? Will her blood run off a table or a bed and get all over me?


I was horrified and crying and sick to my stomach as they admitted Mom to the hospital, and I followed them up to the room to face yet another doctor asking what I wanted them to do. In the end, I opted to have her scoped.* The "invasive" scope took 30 minutes and revealed that there was no internal bleeding, no ulcers in her esophagus, nothing at all that would explain vomiting blood.

She stayed in the hospital a few more days, where--in comparison to the other hospital in town that Clint's mother goes to frequently--I felt to be, along with my mother, an enormous annoyance.

They were busy, had nothing to report, sure they could call me--what was my number again? A friend sat with me while I waited an hour across from the nurse's station for an update. I finally approached the nurse, where I could see her sitting for the last 15 minutes--and she could clearly see me, but I had been told to wait--and she sighed, "Do you want me in there?" Not "how can I help you?" or "I'll bet you'd like an update!"

I showed up at one point to find the door to Mom's room (and only Mom's room) closed. I'm sure there was a good reason for that, but it didn't comfort me. It felt like they wanted to silence her, when I wanted them to keep an eye on her--she can't use a call button, if she falls out of bed. She does not have words to call for help.

By comparison, when we take Clint's mother to the other hospital in this town, the first thing they do is ask us to take a marker and write our names and phone numbers on the white board in her room. They greet us by name, give us updates, and call Clint at work if he can't get in to see her.

I wanted a little bit of that, regardless of my mother's mental state. I wanted someone to say "I'm sorry, the blood work hasn't come back yet," or "she slept through the night," or a "Honey, we're doing all we can. We have your number and we will call the minute we find out."

This is not sour grapes. I am not a sensitive person that is constantly, as my son says, "butt-hurt" over every infraction. I don't feel entitled to much, and I don't imagine conflict where conflict does not exist. I realize that I wasn't the patient in that situation, and that the staff didn't really owe me jack, if they were taking sufficient care of my mother. I was constantly patient and polite, even when I felt distressed. A nurse in one station argued with me that my mother used a wheelchair. When I told her that my mother had never used a wheelchair, and walks to lunch every day, she corrected me. "No she doesn't." Ma'am. My. Mother. Walks. I'm not making this up. I walk with her. She feeds herself.

But in the end, that's all I had in her defense: She walks and she feeds herself, and I ended up feeling somehow shamed and pathetic that I expected that to be enough to warrant a bit more dignity.

There was more to that day. I was told I could stay in the recovery room for Mom's procedure to calm her, then scolded and kicked out to the waiting room, then dragged back by the first nurse. Twice.

I know there's protocol, and you have to wait somewhere, and I know there was miscommunication, but in the midst of preparing myself to watch  my mother bleed to death---it was just one more conflict that I found myself in the middle of, wondering "what in the hell is happening?"


My mother was sent home after 2 nights in the hospital. She was, I found out from nursing home staff, finally, diagnosed to have had pneumonia and a urinary tract infection.

In the end, after this day, I've become very, very clear about what I want, for my mother and for myself.

I am still dumbstruck that a doctor that told me to consider watching my mother bleed to death never said "we'll keep her comfortable," or "would you like to talk to a social worker?" or "perhaps you should call hospice" or any number of other potential avenues that it has to be clear that we--my mother and I--needed.

Dumbstruck and Furious.

And we will not do this again.


*I am circling back to amend this post and acknowledge that there was one wonderful male nurse (Tim--was his name Tim?) that helped me sort things out to help make my decisions. He was sweet to Mom, calling her hon, and saying comforting things to her as he helped her out. He told me a joke about a duck asking the pharmacist just to put the chapstick on his bill. He made me feel, at the end of that crazy first day, that she was in good hands, and that I could get home and get some rest.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

A Typical Visit

This photo was taken last summer, and it's typical of a visit with my sweet Mama. During the day she sits quietly in the lobby with the other residents. I can no longer get her to look at up at me, so I get down on my knees to look into her eyes, to talk to her.

I usually start with "Hi, Mommy," over and over, until she will finally look at me, for a split second, before she looks away. She grabs my hands, and holds on very tight, then starts talking. She's incoherent and agitated, almost yelling "Dah DAH DAH DAH." It sometimes comes out as "DOD DER" and it is my own imagination—and flicker of hope—that she is saying "daughter-daughter-daughter."

She becomes increasingly agitated, usually, and starts with a few choice words that she picked up from the other residents. "No! Dammit!"  Yikes, she'd be mortified if she knew she was swearing.

So, I get her into a tailspin, and then I... don't know what to do. She's off and rambling, and we watch for awhile, and then I kiss her cheek and tell her I love her, and we wander away, leaving her, safe with the nursing home staff, hoping that she'll calm down pretty soon.

Sometimes the idea of riling her up and then walking away is too much, and I just go look at her. I may pat her shoulder or head, and stand around for a few minutes, kiss her cheek, and leave.

While I don't discourage friends and family from seeing her—I would never deny someone from visiting her—I also no longer encourage it. I have watched her progression, and developed a certain immunity to feeling devastated every time I see her.

On a selfish note, it is very painful for me to witness loves ones visiting her. While I can say, over and over, "she will not recognize you," or "she no longer talks," people will inevitably tell me they understand—and then tell me to tell her hello, or to ask her if she remembers this or that, that happened when they were kids. I've walked loved ones through the nursing home corridors so many times, giving them stronger and stronger warnings on the way in, "This is going to be bad, ok?"

And then, I stand back and watch them try to talk to her, and I watch understanding dawn on them. I stand there and I see myself in the circle of their understanding, and I see how damned sad it is, and I gather them up, and we cry all the way back out.

"How is your mother" is a painful question to me, now, and a big catch-22. I want people to care about her, but I don't have a lot of nice answers. I have a stock of generic responses: "Physically healthy," "Pretty much the same," and "She's fine."

I know they're all misleading answers, but she was diagnosed with this disease almost 15 years ago, and it is exhausting to hash out how she really is every time someone asks, for a decade-and-a-half. There's rarely anything new to report, and never anything positive. I begin to feel like I will suck out your soul if I give you an honest report every time I'm asked how she is. So, "the same" is what I hand out.

You know, my mother always taught me not to say anything, if I had nothing nice to say. I'm finding it even more difficult to immortalize these truths in writing. The truth of the matter is that while my mother is "the same," Alzheimer's runs its course, and her condition declines. I am preparing myself to face some difficult decisions on her behalf.

I will be respectful and kind and ensure her comfort and dignity when it's time to make those calls, because she taught me no less.

Friday, January 27, 2017

5 Years Later...

My last post on this blog was nearly 5 years ago. It was in 2012, and my sweet mother was coming up on her 70th birthday. She is now approaching her 75th, and here's where we—where I—am, now.


When my sister was ill with ovarian cancer, we were continually perturbed with everyone that chimed in, "Oh, you have cancer? Before my father died..." or "Yes, I lost my sister also..." and every other story of everyone you ever knew that died of cancer. While we talked candidly on a daily basis about a prognosis that we dreaded, the stories of YOUR friend dying did little to comfort us. Putting it nicely, we wanted to tackle you.

Oh, I get it. When I'm now presented with a friend or family member that has been diagnosed with cancer, it damn-near kills me not to mention my sister. Hmph! Mention it, I do not—unless I do, accidentally, because from this side, it feels like such a show of solidarity—and then I instantly realize that I need to be tackled.


By the same token, I've no longer wanted to write about my Mother here.

Because there are so many out there, in the early stages. And there are so many good years left, and so much laughter and love to celebrate, and I don't want to be the one to put the fear of God into you about the future.

If you're facing this, now, with a loved one in early stages of Alzheimer's, I—an expert on only one woman with Alzheimer's, that has no idea what you are going through, and so you are invited to tackle me—want to tell you to:


Celebrate what's left. 

Just agree. Don't correct, or teach, or insist, or shame. There's no logic at play here. Roll with it.

Did I say: ROLL. WITH. IT?

Because, Roll with it. 

Sit back. Analyze. You will find utter brilliance in your loved one's substitutions in an attempt to communicate.  My mother once forgot how to tell me she was crying, and instead she told me: "There were tears in my house."

Tune in.  I know you just got off work and raced over to do the dishes and heat up a microwave meal, but there were tears in her house, dude.

Express your amazement. They will rejoice that they discovered a work-around that you never thought about. It's lovely when they're still smarter than you are! Acknowledge that.

Hug. Love. Sing.

Write it down, for God's sake. You're going cling to, and adore every last crazy word you had together. Facebook TimeHop reminds me that we did it right: We held on, baby, and we make the best of it.

And finally:

Do not, for the love of God, read the next couple of posts. Because you do not need this crap right now.


Bookmark them. You might need them in the future...because when MY mother was in the final stages of Alzheimer's.... 


Sunday, March 18, 2012

Amazing Grace

I'm long overdue with a post about my mother since placing her in a nursing home 1 year ago. I've made a few attempts, but my life has changed so drastically as a result of not being her sole caregiver that I keep veering off and yammering about myself.

I'll try to keep me out of it, then, and tell you: Mom is healthy and happy, and I couldn't ask for a better facility than Champaign County Nursing Home. She is healthy and safe, and loved.

Her condition has continued to deteriorate. I don't believe she knows my name, but she knows very well who I am, gasping each time I walk into her sight, and exclaiming "oh, I am so HAPPY you are here."

Interesting is that she remembers, full well, Clint's name; she is quite enamored with him. I think it's because I speak of him, and close each visit by asking her what I should fix Clint for dinner. The answer, after some thought, is always "bacon."

In general, we walk, and we sing, and she tells me she will give me fifty thousand dollars. Over and over, this is our routine. Amazing Grace, we still sing, along with Jesus Loves me.

Amazing Grace is...what we have left.

I am, like she was, when she was cognizant, shy about raising my voice. And yet, I walk the halls with her, singing Amazing Grace, for every passerby to hear. I can do it when I am alone with her, but I've found that if friends or family join us, I tend to step outside and look at our overall picture, and the song buckles me.

One of my best childhood friends, who lived down the street and around the corner, has placed her  mother, also, in the Alzheimer's wing of CCNH. When I visit my mother, I visit hers. I stop every time to tell her, "Hi Eva, I'm friends with your daughter, Nancy. I used to spend the night at your house." She always, lovingly, tells me, "thank you for telling me that."

Likewise, Nancy, who lives 90 miles away, lets me know when she has spoken to my mother. She brought her granddaughter to visit her mother yesterday, and sent me this message:
I saw your mama yesterday, I was holding Stella (she was asleep), I said "hi, Eleanor"' she said "looks like you have a baby," I said "yes, she's tired" then your mom said "you know what?" and she started singing Amazing Grace, she sang the first line, then I sang the second back to her, (of course tears in my eyes) then I told her I would see her later.
Sigh. This ol' world. If I hadn't promised not to make this post about myself, I'd tell you all about how much I love my mother, and how much I love Eva, and how much Nancy's singing with  my mother just about brings me to my knees. Who would have thought, when we were mucking through 4th grade together, that we would be here?

But this is an update about Mom, remember? I love her with all my heart, and ache if I haven't seen her for a few days. And I imagine "Amazing Grace" will pretty much take my breath away for the rest of my life.

She turned 70 on February 22.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

New Life

There have been events that have changed the direction of my life in the last couple of months. I've been  riding them out for awhile, before blogging about them.

1 day into my new job, back in February, I realized that Mom was in some pain. She'd probably been sick for a few days, but I'd missed the cues. If I questioned her about her suddenly grasping her abdomen, she'd merrily respond, "What?! I have no pain." How do I call the doctor and ask to get her in right away...because I'm not sure why?

Of course, if you let some things go, they worsen and it was suddenly terribly obvious that she needed to see her doctor. I cut out early on the 2nd day of my new job to take her to Convenient Care. Her illness, thank God, was treatable with antibiotics and painkillers, but they still took a few days to kick in.

I got up at the buttcrack of dawn to tend to Mom before starting Day 3 of my new job. I arrived to find a gargantuan mess. Her bed was wet and soiled, she was wet and soiled, the floors were wet and soiled. I set water running, and stepped out of my sweater and blouse, to keep from making a mess of my own clothes, and got Mom into the shower. I settled her in warm jammies with a cup of tea, then stripped beds, started laundry, washed floors, cleaned carpets. Then I raced out the door to try to get to work on time.

Of course, I realized that I'd left my phone at home, so I had to head in the opposite direction. As I approached the house, I realized that my clothes were still in Mom's living room. I found another outfit, grabbed my phone, and hit the road to my new office where I was going to arrive late and have to explain that I had to leave early today. Frazzled and stressed, I decided on the spot:

It's enough. I'm done. I've done a good job. I'm proud. But I'm done; I can't do it any more.

I called a case manager that mom had been assigned to ages ago, and, without reservation, told her "I need help. Today."

Within an hour, I had a call back, with news that there was an opening at Champaign County Nursing Home, 1 mile away from her home, 3 miles away from ours. In Garden View Court, a unit set up specifically for Alzheimer's patients. This was looking good.

I took care of Mom through the weekend, and the following Tuesday, I loaded her and her baby doll,  "Savannah," into the car. I told her we were going to go somewhere that there would be nurses to take care of her all while I'm at work, and she would have lots of girlfriends to talk to. She was excited.

Mom and Savannah

It was harder on me than it was for Mom. It's kind of like dropping your kid off for her first day of kindergarten...but not.  I didn't know how it was going to go, and you's still a nursing home, with nursing home sights and nursing home smells, and nursing home nurses, and it's intimidating on your first day.

I was teary, and worried, and anxious, but instantly comforted when we arrived: The staff was waiting with open arms for Mom...and a stroller and a blanket for Savannah.

Mom got her settled, and took off like she'd lived there for years. Several staff members stopped to admire her baby.

Her bedroom overlooks a walking path (good for pushing strollers on), in the midst of a garden tended by Master Gardeners.

There's a small aviary, and this is her favorite bird:

"Oooo! Pink and purple!," she says.

8 weeks later. You can see by the pictures that she's pretty content in her new home. She sometimes asks to go home, but she imagines a home in which she is a child, and there are friends and family around her. When I remind her that she would have to sit by herself all day until I get off of work, then she agrees, that she likes it better where she is.

I focus now on paperwork and the exorbitant out-of-pocket costs for Alzheimer's care, while I adjust to living a life that doesn't rotate around tending to Mom. I have been amazed to discover how much of my time, energy, and money have gone into taking care of her, but I'll save that for a different post.

It is a new life for both of us.

I am damned proud. I am proud that I took care of my mother as long as I could and as good as I could. I made a few mistakes, and I know I was criticized along the way by a few friends and family that felt I should have put her in a nursing home earlier.

Ahh, but they weren't there, my armchair critics. I don't move blindly through my life. The decisions I made were the right ones, for us. I kept my mother happy, safe, and healthy for as long as I could, and took action when it was beyond me.

Yes, it's made for hectic schedule in my life, at times. So what?

I have, for years now, wondered at people that  "console" me with the words "it's as if you've already lost her." Really? Because things have changed, and she is not the same woman that she once was, I have lost her? She no longer IS? I bristle, darlings. Would you think that of your spouse, your best friend, your sister? Your child? 

Let me explain that her pronouncing "Jingle Bells" as "Bangle Jells" doesn't make her dead. I have not lost her. She is a beautiful little girl that wants to sing Bangle Jells and Jesus Loves Me. She likes babies and birdies and shrimp and bacon. Not a day goes by that she doesn't tell me I'm beautiful, thank me for all that I do for her, and tell me that she loves me so much. 


And she is safe and happy, and I rest easy, these days.

Life is good.

*Shout out to my new employers, Jennie & Paul Edwards, who never blinked an eye over my sporadic first weeks in their office, reiterating only "Mom comes first."  You guys just dropped right out of heaven!

Monday, November 15, 2010


I haven't been writing much, lately, here, there or anywhere. Truth is that taking care of Mom is burning me out a bit. Lately I feel like I am tired every minute of every day. I'm not sure if we're going through a temporary phase or if we're entering a new stage of Alzheimer's, but Mom has been particularly, ummm, quirky lately.

Where I have previously been able to anticipate her next move and prepare for it, she lately takes me off guard.

  • I go to put lip balm on her lips, and she bits the end of the chapstick off.
  • I let her smell a candle, and she licks it.
  • She breaks into dance at the most inopportune moments--more often than not when we're surrounded by displays of glass.
  • Her fixation with her hair and hairbrush has returned, she brushes her hair constantly, and calls me on the phone to tell me how much hair she's recovered from her hairbrush.
  • I looked up this evening to find her combing her hair with her fork, while we sat eating in a restaurant.
  • She wants to tell you that you are beautiful, or handsome. This sounds endearing, but strangers are very put off by it. I run constant interference, worrying that she'll some day approach the wrong person, and end up with her feelings hurt, or worse.
  • She wants to constantly shove a blanket in my face while I'm working in her house. "Here! This will keep you warm." 
  • She cannot find the toilet tissue or flushing handle in any bathroom besides her own, so needs assistance everywhere we go.
  • I've mentioned before that the slightest discomfort brings forth a response of pure agony. I'm supposed to take her blood pressure every day, and each time she screams "Why is this happening to me?"
  • She rarely puts the phone back on the hook, and if I do not call her intermittently throughout the day, I arrive to find her sobbing, telling me she thought that I no longer love her.
In addition to all of these little issues, her attention span is waning. When I direct her, for instance, to slide her foot into a shoe, she agrees to, and then walks away, shoeless. When I remind her she needs to put a coat on, she says "ok" and continue out the door as if I haven't spoken, only to turn around and announce that it's freezing outside. Herding her through a door, or to the correct car, or away from the mens room is a constant chore.

We have then, a giant Catch-22. She is lucid enough to not want to be sequestered. She wants to get out, go shopping, go do something. But taking her out is getting to be more than I can handle, alone. Getting and keeping her attention requires a certain amount of sternness. Holding the car door for her, and telling her to get in doesn't work. "Mom! Get in the car! We have to go now!" will get her attention. It also, often, hurts her feelings, and we come back to "I know I bother you."

I've written here before that I have gotten some in-home help with her. Daily help has been a Godsend to be sure, but her condition advances, and I seem to fall further behind. I have enlisted the help of medical counselors to start shopping for assisted living in Alzheimer's facilities after the beginning of the year.

I feel incredibly guilty. I feel like I should shirk off tired, and continue to do everything I can. I scold myself "It's not about you! You don't even have this disease! You have so much to be thankful for! Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" But I also feel like I'm exhausted to the point of  making myself sick. I'm too tired to do what i need to keep myself physically and mentally healthy. Meal planning? Exercise? When, 10 p.m.? I find myself answering every question addressed to me with some story about my mother. Things I do, I just do not do any more. I don't even know what things I do.

I have no tidy way to finish this post up, I'm too tired to think of anything clever. My mother, she is precious, and I do love her.

Alzheimer's sucks.

The end.