by Carol Nissenbaum

Created on: June 02, 2008

Goodbye, Darling

My mother is propped up in the hospital bed, suddenly an old woman. The fever that has gripped her has aged her in just a few days. The cords in her neck stand out in harsh relief. Her mouth is closed, her hands tightly clenched into fists. Even in sleep, she appears agitated. Will she ever be at peace, I wonder. Will this god-awful disease ever let her out of its grasp? It is a greedy monster, consuming her on a daily basis, heaping indignity upon indignity upon her, until she is rendered as helpless as an infant. But infants will develop and grow. My mother will only grow sicker and soon she will die, another victim of Alzheimer's disease, not even 70 years old.

A brisk, smiling nurse comes in and hoists my mother up. Not too Herculean a task, as she is now reduced to little more than a bony frame with a little skin. The nurse, Muriel is her name, announces to my mother that it is time to eat dinner. Slowly, my mother's eyes begin to open, and she no longer looks so old. Her eyes are large and brown, cow eyes, and now she just looks frightened. "Come on, Lola," Muriel urges. "Open up!" But my mother doesn't open her mouth. Does she even know what "open" means anymore? Or is she just being stubborn? Her eyes seem to plead with us: they are haunting, those eyes. Her fists remain tightly closed. We are beaming at her; she apparently does not remember how to smile. "Come on, Mom" I echo. "Open your mouth!" I realize that calling her Mom is futile; before she lost the ability to speak, she believed herself to be a young girl living in her parents' home, with my father alternately "courting" her or playing the role of her father. "Come on, Lola," I chime, "you can do it." Slowly her mouth opens, and Muriel slips a little of the clear soup in. Most of it dribbles down my mother's chin and chest, but a tiny bit goes in. We see her swallow, and we savor this small victory: "Good girl, Lola!" The irony of this moment does not go unnoticed; how sad it is that the woman who once fed me does not even know what food is, or how to eat it.

Muriel continues the arduous task of feeding my mother. The nurse's patience is seemingly endless. Her back must surely ache from bending over, coaxing my mother to open her mouth. Each spoonful is an effort, but she keeps going until the soup is nearly gone. She also gets her to eat some applesauce. Muriel is very pleased with herself, and my husband and I are pleased as well. This is the only food my mother has had in

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