My mother has Alzheimer’s.

I am sitting at a metal table in Bay Lake Park having a picnic with my mother.  She has Alzheimer’s.  She can barely talk.  I, who use my voice to sing, teach and communicate all day, can no longer have a conversation with my mother.  She has no words.

I brought her a huge M & M cookie.  I asked her if she liked it.  She said, “I like it.”  Three words, a whole sentence and a statement of truth!  It was like I’d been handed a jewel.  Mom is perfectly content to sit silently with me, staring at the trees, the moving cars, the people walking by.  She doesn’t need words.

I am struck by how uncomfortable I am without words, without conversation, without the usual verbal give and take.  But we are having give and take of a different kind, just being together.

When I visit, I always sing for Mom and her fellow residents, songs from their era, folk and patriotic songs, anything they might remember.  When I sing, Mom smiles.  When I start “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” which was my grandfather’s favorite song, her eyes get teary.  She looks at me, really looks at me.  A connection is made.  At Christmas time, singing “Silent Night,” Mom’s lips were moving with the familiar words.

The ears are the first sensory organ to develop in the womb and the last organ to receive input when we die.  It’s why singing to babies in the womb has a proven effect and why singing to people as they die lets them know that they are not alone.  They are loved.  They hear, even in a coma.

I am sad, though, watching Mom slip closer to leaving.  I hold her hand, talk to her about what’s beautiful and sing “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.”

When it’s time for me to leave, I hug Mom and say, “I love you.”  Usually her response is silence or a smile.  Today, she says, “I love you.”  It’s garbled, but I am glad I didn’t miss it.

Me, Mom, and my sisters, Heidi and Tricia at The Memory Center in Virginia Beach