It was a subtle change, yet I felt its impact as if a door slammed shut in my heart.
During the Thanksgiving weekend, I visited Mom. Each of the three days when I knocked and entered her room, Mom sat in her chair – in the dark.
Alone – with a book on her lap, pretending to read.
Just a few months ago, I often found her at a table with other residents, playing cards – laughing together, competing and exercising their brain cells.
Not this time.
Others still played in the dining hall. I saw them shuffling cards and tossing them at each other, then laughing together, enjoying the camaraderie of the game.
But they played without my mother, and I wondered why.
Then I realized the reason she sat alone, without friends, sans an activity she once enjoyed.
She doesn’t play cards anymore because she can’t. The comprehension required for something as simple as Rook or Uno no longer exists.
So my mother sits in the dark, lost within herself.
After our visit, I began to drive away, then pulled over, beating the steering wheel and crying out to the God who allowed this dark aloneness in my mother’s life.
But then I remembered the book Mom held on her lap, the words she read over and over, even without comprehending.
Even though Alzheimer’s deletes entertaining card games and clouds the comprehension needed for winning – Mom still knows where to find hope.
She is never truly alone because Emanuel lives within her, loving her through this journey and offering his light to illumine her darkness.
©2015 RJ Thesman – Author of the Reverend G books http://amzn.to/1rXlCyh