y mom has Alzheimer’s and thinks I’m her caregiver. Yesterday, I braided her hair the way she used to braid mine before school. When I started crying, she took my hand and whispered, “Want me to tell you a secret? But promise you won’t tell my daughter.”
I almost dropped the hairbrush.
“Of course,” I whispered.
Mom glanced toward the bedroom door.
“I think my husband is having an affair with my nurse.”
My fingers went cold.
Because I’d seen them together when I was 14.
And for nearly 28 years, my father had convinced me I was wrong.
“I’m Ruth,” Mom told me the first morning I came to help her. “Are you the girl who’s here to take care of me?”
“I’m Annie.”
Her face brightened.
“My daughter’s named Annie, too. Such a pretty name.”
I smiled, although it hurt.
“I’m glad you think so.”
Mom is 71 now.
Her Alzheimer’s has progressed to the point where she often believes she’s living decades in the past.
Sometimes she asks whether her daughter has finished her homework.
Other times, she worries because Annie hasn’t come home from school.
She never seems to understand that the woman making her breakfast is the little girl she’s waiting for.
Three months ago, her longtime nurse, Linda, resigned.
Dad was 74, exhausted, and finally willing to admit he couldn’t manage Mom’s daily care alone.
He called me after years of telling me my visits upset her.
“Your mother needs you now, Annie.”
I nearly laughed at the words.
I’d needed her for most of my life.
But I came.
At first, everything overwhelmed me.
Mom sometimes refused her medicine, misplaced her slippers, or asked the same question ten times in an hour.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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