Wednesday, December 3, 2014 (06:20 PM)
I keep things simple. My mantra: Eat when you're hungry; sleep when you're tired; let's take a walk. Every day she has vanilla ice-cream; a piece of dark chocolate; a glass of red wine.
Wednesday December 3, 2014 (06:59 PM)
My mom likes David Letterman. For the past six months, she rarely makes it to 10:30 p.m., when he airs in Chicago. Yesterday, she told me that she had forgotten how to get to David Letterman's. She said she used to go there all the time and now she didn't remember how to get to the street where he lived. I told her she could find him with the remote control, from the comfort of her bed; I would help her. She was relieved.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014 (08:10 PM)
It is hard, but we laugh a lot. She knows she has a problem. When she's fully aware, which is often enough, she can't believe the stories I tell her about things she's said and done. It's like there are two people: the Maggie that was always there, and the one that's slipping away.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014 (08:55 PM)
My mom had three brothers and three sisters. Her parents were both born in Ireland and met in Chicago. Her dad was a plumber; he had his own business, but lost it during the Depression. Her two older brothers were killed six months apart in WWII. It hit the family hard, her dad in particular; he railed against Roosevelt. My mom is the last surviving member of her family. She often dreams of her dad, thinking he's here with her. She wakes crying and asks me if he is still alive. It's happened several times now. Each time I tell her she's 85, and that would make him impossibly old.
He died the week after I was born, in September of 1955.
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Her brothers who died in WWII:
