Mother’s Day is a pretty lugubrious day around here, made even more so today by Chicago’s rain and gloom. There are no mothers here. Both my wife’s mother and my mother are dead. My wife and I have taken to calling this “the orphelins’ home” (quoting Meet Me in St. Louis). All four of our parents are dead—my father for more than half a century. It’s not completely unexpected considering our ages but it’s still lonely all the same.
My mother is alive, in the Alzheimers’ unit. You can have a conversation with her, she speaks, with facial expressions, head and hand gestures, but it’s gibberish. I can respond with any comment I want. She accepts that and responds with more unintelligible language, back and forth until one of us tires. My sister is distraught by this. Has to fix everything. I just accept the new reality. I promise to see her often, hope I can keep that