Childhood injuries led me to plumb the depth of Viola's motherly love. At 4, I shattered my right leg. Bone implant surgery put me in a body cast for nine months and a walking cast for six more. If the graft hadn't worked, my leg would have been amputated.

Mom cared for my every physical and emotional need. She carried me around with a handle the doctor had fashioned on the cast. She cleaned my bedpan, nurtured my fragile identity and taught me not to wallow in self-pity.

I thrived on her joy. She was my best friend and confidant and her upbeat way of dealing with adversity stuck with me. I was totally convinced she was perfect.

Now my sisters and I were uprooting Mom from her home and moving her to a locked Alzheimer's care unit in Arvada.

As the movers began to carry out her belongings, she watched uneasily. I soothed her, explaining that she needed to go, that everything would be taken care of, that we'd be there for her.

She trusted us, even if we didn't trust ourselves. Mom walked out with me arm in arm, and as we drove away for the last time, she never looked back.

The boxes I carried into Mom's new home were light compared to the burden of doubt that saddled me.

 

Does she hear the door locking behind us? For me, it is loud, a metallic clank to reverberate through future nightmares. Is this betrayal? No, I tell myself. It is not a prison. The prison is in her mind, as it breaks down, little by little.

Is there no escape? I stare at her, sickened by what is happening behind those eyes so familiar. She looks back placidly, drifting in and out of sleep. Running my fingers through her hair, I cannot help but think of her brain dying just below my touch. What is going on in there? Simply rest? Would that be so bad? What is left in her heart as her mind is undone?