I would hold on to the sweet memory of scooping my young children into my arms after they’ve played outside on a warm summer day, kissing them on their sweaty necks and taking in their delicious scent, smelling all their imaginary play, their new discoveries, their hopes and dreams.
But this isn’t how it plays out.
An Alzheimer sufferer becomes the child and this sweet memory of a mother with her children will not survive. The Alzheimer’s “child” will find THEMSELVES in the arms of their imaginary mother who is holding and comforting them. And as the mother inhales everything this child is and was, the “child” will whisper in her ear “help me.”