She is Forgetting Some of You

My mom is forgetting some of you.

Please don't be offended when we see you and she doesn't say "hello" right away. Or when I say, "Mom, you remember so and so, don't you?" And she nods and acknowledges you even though she isn't quite sure. And please don't say, "Of course she remembers me!" as if I am mistaken because she really doesn't and it will make her feel bad.

The newer you are, the more likely she is to forget you, especially if she doesn't see you often. At my cousin's funeral recently, the number of people passing through and speaking to her overwhelmed her. She didn't recognize a lot of people because her distant memory is clear and she remembers the way you looked when you were a kid or when you were younger. She even said of her own brother, "I wouldn't have recognized him on the street" because she remembers a younger man and when she pictures him, she pictures a man in his prime, with a young, beautiful wife and small children.

Sometimes after we have run into an old classmate of mine or a former neighbor or even a relative we haven't seen in a while, she will say, "Oh my she doesn't look like herself." But... she does look like herself. She just doesn't look like herself when we were teenagers.

One day, my nephew asked if she will forget us too. The short answer is yes. I will never forget when my grandpa forgot who I was. I came home from work and walked into the back room and he was terrified. He not only didn't know me but he was afraid because he didn't know me.

It will absolutely suck when we reach that phase and I pray that it is ten years down the road. Selfishly, I dread it mostly because I know it is something I will have to go through alone.

There's nothing we can do to prepare for it except be around. Be around as often as possible. Call. Visit. Hug her. Listen to her tell the same stories and ask the same questions at a ridiculous clip within the short time you spend together. Be patient and just be there because, she is already forgetting some of you.

Baseball and the Brain

My dad is kind of a saint.

The time between mom's repetitions has shortened dramatically and her short-term memory is the worst it has ever been. The other day she asked him three times in a span of about 20 minutes if he wanted to save his leftover Chinese food. She had no idea she already asked. This type of interaction occurs on a daily basis.

This week, baseball began. My mom has always been a huge baseball fan. Before her Alzheimer's really took hold and back when dad was more mobile than he is now, my parents attended about six St. Louis Cardinals games per season. They sat in the bleachers where I had my season tickets. Each visit to the ballpark was quite the production. Donning there Cardinal t-shirts labeled "Meemo" and "Papa Joe," my parents left the house hours before game time so they could park at a nearby (and very expensive) parking lot, grab a couple of hot dogs, and catch a bit of batting practice.

Mom always lugged along a thermal bag with bottled water and often pulled a ridiculously large visor on her head to keep the sun out of her eyes. Dad tugged on one of his many ball caps and once he sat in his seat, he usually didn't move until around the 6th inning when they would pack up and head home, listening to the rest of the game on the radio as the cruised back home along the back roads.

Mom doesn't remember this season's opening day, even though we all watched the game together. She doesn't remember the walk-off win, the first win of the season. There are only three pieces of Cardinal baseball my mom remembers every day: Mike Matheny, Adam Wainwright, and Yadier Molina. The three of them have been around long enough that they are a part of my mom's longer term memory.

Now, mom still enjoys the game of baseball. She will watch every single game, keeping a watchful eye out for Yadi, especially. But every game, she has the same questions. Over and over and over, dad sits beside her and reminds her who Randall Grichuk is and tells her why Jose Oquendo is no longer standing by third base. Sunday, dad "introduced" mom to Dexter Fowler about six times and tonight, he did it all over again.

Dad is much more patient than me. He always has been. But he is especially patient now. Sometimes, dad is kind of a saint. But he loves my mom and she loves her baseball so he does whatever he can to keep their love and her love of baseball alive.