Since Mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis two-and-a-half years ago, the runnyness of her nose has increased in direct proportion to her declining memory. So her announcement yesterday, “There’s only one tissue left in this pack,” shortly after we embarked on a long list of errands, was alarming. One tissue wasn’t going to go staunch the flow as we toddled from library to bank to restaurant to hair appointment.
“Not a problem,” I assured her as we pulled into the library parking lot. “I’ll get the pack from my purse and give it to you.” I quickly got out of the car and unearthed the tissue pack, then ran around to Mom’s side and helped her get out.
Mom’s tissue lasted clear through the library and the stop at the bank drive up window. But when we were finally settled into our booth at the Chinese restaurant, it was a soggy mess. She waved it like a sail battered by The Perfect Storm. “I need a new one.”
“Oh well,” I said, “you’ve got plenty in the new pack I gave you at the library. Use one of those.”
Mom searched her coat pockets. “It’s not here,” she said. “But I found an extra tissue.” She extracted the prize and put it to immediate use.
I checked my purse again. The pack wasn’t there. Plus, I could visualize the blue plastic wrapper in my hand as I took it from my purse. What had Mom done with it? “It must have fallen out of your pocket in the car,” I reasoned.
But when we got into the car after lunch, it wasn’t there. Thankfully, her hairdresser has tissue boxes scattered throughout her establishment, so Mom stocked up. She made it through the appointment, home, and into bed for her nap without incident. I made sure she had a new pack of tissues in her purse and then headed for home.
I mused about the incident on the way. When would Mom’s hand find the missing pack in the place she’d absentmindedly tucked it? How would my brother spin the discovery so Mom would laugh instead of be frustrated by her failing memory? Then I got home, got busy, and didn’t give the mystery another thought. Until yesterday evening, as Hiram and I went out the door, and I reached into my coat pocket for my gloves.
My hand closed around a soft, crinkling rectangle.
The missing tissue pack.
I must have slipped it in my pocket in my hurry to help Mom in the library parking lot.
I sighed.
Which one of us has Alzheimer’s?
