“Happy Birthday Son!”
Miss Cathy said the words with love and affection as I walked into the living room on Saturday morning with the cup of coffee that she’d forgotten in the kitchen.
“Thank you”, I said, smiling down as I handed her the cup.
“That’s sweet of you to say except today’s not my birthday.”
“Todays the fourth isn’t it?”, she stated rather than asked, looking very self-righteous as any woman who was present at the birth would.
“Yes,” I replied, “today is the fourth.”
“And no mom”, I gently reminded her. “My birthday is on the eighth.”
“You’ll be fifty four?” she asked, alittle less sure of herself.
“Close”, I said,” fifty-five.”
We went round and round a couple times before she was convinced that I was right (which meant that she was wrong) and then there was a moment or two of silent recognition before the expression on here face seemed to say, ‘this is one more of those things that she was sure of that she’s not so sure of anymore’.
I sat next to her, not saying anything (after all, what is there to say really, in a moment like that? Personally I think it’s best just to be there but let her be).
We sat for a moment or two in silence while she’d collected herself and then she told me that she appreciated everything that I do for her (a much appreciated sentiment but an odd segue nonetheless).
She said she’d been meaning to tell me that my moving in to take care of her allows her to sleep peacefully at night in her own bed so she’s not afraid and that meant a lot.
Then she handed me a small stack of bills and said, “Here, I’ve got alittle present for you,”
The non-sequiturs just kept coming.
“Happy Birthday!” she said again.
I thanked her for the present and hugged her, not quite sure if she’d forgotten the conversation we’d just had about ‘when’ my actual day of birth was or if she was just acknowledging my birthday in general.
When your mother is convinced of the wrong date for your birth, not to be confused with being ‘wrong’ about the age of your child by a year (which is more or less understandable).
Hell, sometimes I forget how ‘old’ I am.
But, to not know with certainty something as fundamental as the day of the month to which you gave birth (to one of your two sons-it’s not like she’s Mrs. Duggar of “19 Kids & Counting fame) portends other ‘knowns’ to become ‘unknown’.
I just sat there, counting my money and smiling, thinking, there are so many things wrong with that exchange; suffice to say no more evidence should be needed as proof that Miss Cathy’s Alzheimer’s is advancing.