Before the diagnosis, I had started asking why. Why couldn’t she remember our intimate conversations? Why wasn’t she listening? Why did she believe the housekeeper had stolen her wedding ring? Why couldn’t she remember the names of the grandchildren’s friends when she’d met them so many times? Why couldn’t she follow the conversation? WhyContinue reading “Cup of Tea”
I remember my mother firing Lisa at the top of the dunes, a Winston dangling from her lips. “Pack up, that’s it,” she said, as she carried me down the long path to the dock and eventually to the ambulance boat that would take us to the clinic in Bayshore.