- To the woman in the booth behind us -- I apologize for
my mother. She isn't aware she is staring at you "watching you eat".
All she is aware of is the activity around her, and the music of voices
raised in conversation. All she is doing is looking around her with the
wonder of a child trying to see everything, but without the ability any
longer to know that she might offend. I will not deny her the joy she
finds in going to dinner although all she will remember is the joy but
not what caused it.
-
- To the woman in the grocery store restroom -- I apologize
for my mother. Her body has betrayed her. She isn't aware she has had
an accident. Her diaper has to be changed and she has me to help her.
Thank goodness that she won't remember your comments about the odor or
the accident. Unfortunately, I will.
-
- To the man in the checkout line -- I apologize for my
mother. She is living in a world of 70 years ago. She meant no offense
and intended a compliment when she called you a fine looking Negro. Your
harsh words will make no difference to her. She can't remember them and
all she will remember is hurting because someone yelled at her.
-
- To the kids on the sidewalk behind us -- I apologize
for my mother. She shuffles rather than walks. We go slowly, with her
trustingly holding my hand as I did hers when I was a child and these roles
were reversed. She can't hurry up. Pushing her or calling her names cannot
make her walk any faster. Her body and her mind are fragile now and neither
will be getting any better. So walk around us quietly and hope it will
never be you and your mother walking slowly together on the sidewalk.
-
- To Mom's friends -- I apologize for my mother. She doesn't
remember the you of today. When she sees you when we are out, you are
a stranger. She will great you with the inborn graciousness she has always
possessed but she doesn't know you. The you of yesterday, however, is
a source of joy to her as she talks about the things you did together "just
last week."
-
- To the police -- I apologize for my mother. I believe
that somewhere inside she knows that something is wrong and she wants to
go home. Home is 70 years ago on a farm in North Carolina with her mother
and father and three sisters. Thank you for taking the time to understand
and bring her back to me when she goes searching for her home.
-
- To my cousins -- I apologize for my mother. As her nieces
and nephews she has always loved you all dearly. But she doesn't know
you now. Most of the time she doesn't know that I am her daughter. A
little more of her slips away every day. But as she looks at the family
photo albums the love she feels for you has not dimmed.
-
- To my husband -- I apologize for my mother. She has always
loved you as a son. I see the pain you feel watching her fade further
and further away from us every day. I have watched you build a place for
her in our home without a word of thanks from her or even acknowledgement
of your accomplishments. I couldn't do this without you. Your support
and love for both of us keeps me going.
-
- Thank you.
-
- -- Nancy Stead fonelady @ bellatlantic.net
-
-
- Nancy lives with her husband, Brian, and her mother Lois
Cunningham (who has Alzheimer's) in Wildwood, New Jersey, along with their
six cats.
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