My mom is not the person she was before Alzheimer’s started messing with her head. She can no longer:
- milk ten cows before getting on the bus to go to high school.
- stay up all night reading newly released novels like Gone With the Wind.
- match her big brothers bale for bale while hauling in the hay crop.
- reign as Iron Maiden of the Franklin School playground.
- bake a pie.
- move heavy furniture without a lick of help.
- remember the way to the cemetery where her husband is buried.
And yet, on Tuesday when Hiram and I drove Mom to that cemetery to decorate graves, what she is able to do remains a joyful and welcome comfort. She still can:
- read a novel a day.
- count out the exact change after taking us to lunch.
- appreciate the rare beauty of a perfect May day.
- find joy in the accomplishments of her grandchildren.
- tease her children relentlessly.
- remember how much her sister Ruth admired the trees in the cemetery where Dad is buried.
- Walk across bumpy grass to pay her respects at the graves of her husband and in-laws.
After arranging the flowers beside the headstone, I asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of you beside Dad’s grave?”
Mom glanced first at Dad’s name on the gravestone, then pointed to the grass in front of her own. Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like me to lay down and demonstrate the coming attraction?”
Hiram and I burst out laughing, and so did she. With big belly laughs that have lasted all week. Because my mom is still Dorothy Stratton. She’s still got her sense of humor.
She’s still got it.
