My Little Girl. Where is she?

Yesterday,  Mom had her six-month checkup with her internist. I’m happy to report all is well. Upon the conclusion of the check-up, I had the receptionist call for a wheelchair.  Unfortunately,  I had to park farther out than I wanted to due to the unavailability of nearby handicap parking.  Gone are the days when I could drop Mom off at the door and go park because as her Alzheimer’s progresses, her inability to remember who she was with or what she is supposed to be doing increases.

Take my hand and I’ll lead the way.

So back to the wheelchair, the attendant is standing with Mom outside waiting on me as I retrieve our car.   I pull up, go around to the passenger side and open her door. I help Mom stand up from the wheelchair and all the while I’m talking to her and using the word ‘Momma,’ so she’ll know who I am. I try to direct her to the car, and she stops. Looking all around, forward, backward, above and below. I asked what she needed. She says, “My little girl. Where is she?” I said, “Momma, I’m your little girl!” She cupped her hands around my face and smiled so brightly. The aide began wiping tears. I thanked her for her assistance and Momma turns to her and kisses her on the cheek. 

These are the moments that keep me going.  Norma Jean doesn’t even realize how much I live for times like this.  A touch, a word, a “bone.”  My friend, Kathy, calls it, “throwing me a bone!  Giving me something to chew on.”  Norma Jean can throw me all the bones she wants.  I love how she can say things that let me know she knows who I am, although she has long forgotten my name.  I also love how she loves on people with no effort at all.

With a smile and a happy heart,