STEPPING OUT

Hazel is a petite, wiry woman of 75, with thinning, disobedient hair, and Shar-Pei like wrinkles worn indifferently after years of smoking. This woman is my mother and she's been kidnapped. We discovered too late her captor stalked silently for years, waiting patiently for a vulnerable moment. My father's stroke produced that moment and my mother emerged from the experience feeling fragile, unprotected, but more so, with a sense of betrayal to which she would never willingly admit.

Mom exhibited a lot of confusion after dads stroke. She was unable to perform simple tasks like writing checks to pay bills. She had difficulty making and keeping appointments of any kind and was completely

overwhelmed by the myriad instructions the medical community demanded in her new role as caretaker. I particularly noticed changes in her driving style. My conscientious, polite, " yes, you can merge in front of me" mother became flip and careless when sharing the road with others. Her driving became cavalier, flavored ever slightly with an edge of combativeness, a behavior completely out of character for a woman who religiously followed the rules. Quickly, and far too immediately, the roles in this traditional fifties marriage had reversed. It was she who had always been cared for and now she was righteously pissed off. She raged silently, a dangerous and destructive kind of anger. The stress was taking a toll on her physically and emotionally. More so, I am convinced the stress created a direct path for her captor to skulk visibly back into her life. By now, however, we knew him by name and called it out loud: Alzheimer's.

Five years have passed since her diagnosis and my mother's descent into this insidious illness has been extremely painful to witness. I'd not seen my mother for a year when I visited in April. There was a nano-moment of recognition when I entered the room---but she slipped just as quickly back into the void she inhabits most frequently.

In my years absence she had become a complete hostage to her illness and a classic textbook case symptomatically. The disease fosters repetitive action; routine becomes a safety net. It is not uncommon for her to tie multiple knots in her shoelaces, but be completely incapable of actually putting her shoes on. Recently, she spied several age spots spilling together on her forearm. Unfortunately, there is a tendency to compulsion with the illness, she became obsessed with the spots and attempted to pick them off. Her age coupled with the disease has produced skin so translucent and fragile one could map cell activity through her forearm. The result was copious bleeding and scabs, setting off a search for long-sleeved garments in the middle of an Arizona summer. Eating, walking, sleeping, her personal interactions, any joy, sorrow or mere participation as spectator are all managed daily for her by the disease.

My mother is not whole. I question how purposeful her life may be as she continues to inhabit this seemingly hostile body that keeps her anchored here in matter. I am uncertain whether the anger or the illness pushed her into this medically sanctioned checking out, but out she is and there she remains. My mother in her pre-Alzheimer's Hazel body would be horrified at her behavior and it is this behavior that prompted my last gesture before leaving. I reached for her hand, clasped it gently, leaned into her, and whispered, "Mom, we all love you, but you don't have to stay here for any of us." She turned to face me, an uncommon action of itself. I kissed her soft cheek and we sat there in that moment silent, complete and free.