The Memory Unit (Part 1)

     I dreamed the phone was ringing.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream.  I fumbled for the handset in the darkness and finally pushed the talk button.  "What are you going to do to help me?  I'm locked in here?  Where am I? What's wrong with you, can't you see I'm not well?  Where are you?  Where's your brother? What are you going to do to help me?  I've got to get out of here!"  My mother was yelling at me.  Her aide took the phone and apologized for  dialing my number but explained that my mother had insisted.  My mother took the phone again and resumed her tirade.  According to my sister, after I spoke with my mother, she somehow managed to escape from her apartment and started banging on all the other apartment doors on the floor.  Thus began her journey to the Memory Unit.

                        Ilustration of Beta-Amyloid Proteins Forming A Plaque


     I called my mother the next morning.  My mother did not know she had a husband, and when I confirmed that she did, she could not remember his name.  Alarmed by this, I immediately called Sylvia, the Director of Nursing, to inform her that my mother's mental state had shifted dramatically.  By early afternoon, my brother had met with Sylvia and the psychiatrist.  According to my brother, Sylvia walked into my mother's assisted-living apartment, took one look at her and said, "Memory Unit".  A cruel euphemism considering its residents are suffering from a lack of memory.

     The move is scheduled to happen within the week.  I will not be there.  In fact, Sylvia preferred that family members not be present.  Thank you, I thought to myself.  I felt a quick rush of relief at the time.  In fact, since I was told of the decision, I haven't spoken to my mother.  It's hard to admit this, but I'm angry at her, for at least two definitive reasons that come to mind that I'm unable to share right now.  Thankfully, my brother has been handling all of the details, and apart from the stress of having to deal with new leases and logistics, he doesn't seem to affected at all.  I know that is not true.  I wish we could talk to each other about our ambivalent feelings.

     About two months ago, the landline voicemail box was full, so I decided to listen to the messages one by one to decide which to save and which to delete.  I accidentally deleted an old message.  It was  from my mother.  She had called during one of the great blizzards of 2010 to ask if we were snowed in and if had power.  It was her last phone call to me.