Eighteen days ago I took over caring for my 82-year-old mother who is challenged by stiff, achy joints, severely limited vision and an unreliable memory. She's not always sure where she is, what year it is, or that the conversations on the TV aren't actually happening in reality.
As the doors slammed shut behind me, I frantically realized my jacket was not in my arms or on my body, but instead was resting comfortably on a seat-back en-route to Glen Park. CRAP. I sullenly stomped out of the station and into the cool fall air sans jacket and wits.
My mother may not know my name, but she knows my voice, and it triggers something within. She giggles girlishly. Then, I start a song, one from the old days, and she joins in. We have our own routine, our Alzheimer's Rag.
As much as I dislike Rick Perry, I totally got how he couldn't remember the third federal department he plans on eliminating if we elect him President. Now finally, we have something to blame for those unfortunately named "senior moments."