Still Waiting

We walk into Target hand-in-hand, her gnarled fingers intertwined with mine. Christmas decorations greet us as we enter. She beams at them, happy that it’s Christmas, happy to be on an outing, happy to be with someone that she loves. She doesn’t know my name, nor does she quite know how we’ve come to be acquainted with one another, but she knows that she is fond of me, and that is enough.

She walks with the gait of a child who has only recently taken her first steps: sort of a carefree shuffle as she propels herself forward. We head directly to the toy section. I know exactly what I am looking for, having done a scouting expedition a couple days before. I’m going to buy the perfect Christmas gift.

“Look Mom,” I say. Her smile widens.

On a display tree are dozens of stuffed animals, staring plaintively at us in hopes of adoption.

“Do you like them?” I ask.

“Uh huh.”

“Which one do you like best? There’s a doggie, a kitty, a brown Teddy bear...”

She’s standing nose to nose with a fuzzy polar bear. It is nattily dressed in a baby blue-and-white-striped stocking cap and a matching scarf. She gazes lovingly into its eyes—eyes as glossy and black as licorice jelly beans.

“Do they have a white one?” she asks.

She clutches it to her chest as we shuffle to the registers. I have to disentangle my hand from hers in order pay for it. Back at the car, I place it carefully into the trunk.

By the time we get back to the house, she’s forgotten all about it.

It was all part of the plan. You see, one of the few advantages of having a loved one with Alzheimer’s is that they can choose their own Christmas present, and it will still be a surprise.

There may be other advantages as well. I’ve never been able to think of any, though.

That was about five years ago. After awhile, there were no more outings, no more conversations. For a time I could place the bear on her lap and she would smile at it and caress its face, speak to it in a language known only by the angels. Eventually the day came when she no longer showed any interest in it. It would stare placidly at her through those licorice-black eyes, but her gaze was always above it, peering into the ceiling and possibly beyond.

The bear sits in my room now, by my bed. Mom passed away last June. It’s been almost ten months. I’ve neglected my blog since then because I knew I’d have to write about stuff like this. I kept telling myself that it would be easier to write tomorrow, when I don’t miss her as much as I do today, but if I waited until I stopped missing her, I’d never start. 

Ten months. They say time heals all wounds.

I’m still waiting.