Mom's passing brings back fond memories

My mother, Margaret Smith, was peacefully released on April 16, 2009.
Having suffered from Alzheimer's disease for the last decade of her life, her passing should have come as a comfort to us, but we are never really ready to let go of someone we love.
I tried to imagine her embracing my brother, her father, and her sister, who all went some years before her. I imagined her young again, full of life, running to meet them in Paradise.
Some years back, when we first began to realize what was happening to her, I sat in a hospital examining room with her while she answered a doctor's questions.
"What's this?" he said, and pointed to his watch.
"I don't know what it's called, "she struggled to remember the name of the object and furrowed her brow.
"I know what it's for. It's to tell time."
"Yes, that's right," he said, and continued to point out everyday objects to her.
A few she could name, and a few she could not. My heart felt like an iron ball in my chest.
"And who is this?" the doctor said, motioning toward me.
"That's my daughter." she said, without hesitation. I sighed.
"And what is her name?"
Forgetting the word, "watch" had not affected her. She was indifferent to not remembering such a simple object, but forgetting my name was more than either of us could take.
"I don't know her name." she said softly, and buried her face in her hands and cried.
The iron ball in my chest dropped to my stomach.
"It's OK, Mama," I said as I wrapped my arms around her. "You don't have to know my name."
As time passed, we were forced to watch as the disease robbed her of everything she had learned in more than 50 years of life. She stopped walking, feeding herself and she would only utter a few words, until finally, nothing at all.
On one particular visit with her, I was bending down, smiling into her face when my father asked her, "Who is this?" Her eyes twinkled as she looked at me, and from somewhere in the depths of her, she uttered a word that demonstrated the strength of a mother's love ..."pretty," she said, and smiled. She gently stroked my hair, a gesture she always used to lull me to sleep when I was a child.
My father's life became making sure she had the best quality of life. When he could no longer give her the care she needed in his home, she became confined to a rest home.
Each day, he got up, dressed, and headed east on I-40 to be there when she woke up at Carolina Rehab Center in Icard.
He fed her breakfast, groomed her, dressed her and spoke softly to her about the things that had always been important to her: her children, her grandchildren, and God.
He would not leave her side until she had drifted back off to sleep, but was there again for the next meal, and the next. In those years of his daily routine, he put more than 300,000 miles on his car. He knew the capable staff at Carolina Rehab could do all the things for her that he did, but he insisted, day after day, on doing it himself. Alzheimer's not only ravages the mind and body of a person, it does the same to the caregivers. My brother, sister and I were often concerned that our father neglected his own health to attend to her.
Within hours of her passing, my family and I sat in the living room of my sister's home reminiscing about her life before Alzheimer's.
I remembered "The Doobie Brothers" incident and smiled. There were two things my mother really loved. One was gospel music and the other was a good bargain.
She and her sisters had been bargain shopping one day and she came across a huge tub full of cassette tapes that had been marked down to $1.99 each. When I came home that evening, she was standing with the tape in her hands.
"I bought this tape today," she said, extending it out for me to examine. "I thought it was gospel. It says 'Jesus is just alright' on the front. I listened to it a little bit, and you know what? I think it's rock-n-roll."
"Mama," I said, with unconcealed amusement, "That's the Doobie Brothers." The name didn't register to her.
"Do you know what a 'doobie' is?" She stared at me blankly as I went on.
"A doobie is a marijuana cigarette. They named themselves after a marijuana cigarette. Pot. Reefer. You know."
Her eyes widened with disbelief.
"Well who in the world would do such a thing?" she said.
"And you know what?" I said, "They're not even brothers."
I always smile when I think of this story, but I'm proud of her innocent naivete about some of the evils of the world.
These are the memories of my mother I want to hold close, not the tiny little woman shriveled up in a bed who no longer remembered who I was.
I thank God for my mother's life.
How fortunate I am to have the treasure chest of memories I have of her.
It's over now, Mama. You are free now.
Mind, body and soul.