The other day, Mom wanted me to ask John to find her winter clothes. He told me where they were and I retrieved the two large plastic storage containers labeled by Mom, "Winter Cloths-Sweaters" and "Winter Cloths-Pants" and lugged them up to Mom's apartment before I left to babysit Ava and Anna. "Here's your winter clothes, Mom. Maybe Nancy can help you sort through them today and you can figure out what still fits and I'll wash them tomorrow."
When I returned home that afternoon and went up to see how Mom's day had gone, the first thing she said to me was, "Donna, I don't know whose clothes those are, but they are certainly not mine!"
"Yes they are," I said. I motioned for her to come with me as I went to the containers sitting on the floor beside her bed. I took the covers off and began pulling her polyester comfort slacks out one by one. "These are yours, Mom. These are the pants you order from Haband. You don't recognize them?"
"No. I don't think they're my clothes."
"Mom, look at these sweaters--this Christmas one--remember this?" I held it up. She shook her head no. She insisted again they weren't hers.
"Yes, these are your clothes, Mom. Look at the writing on these covers. Is that your handwriting?"
As I looked into her aging blue eyes, I could tell she was finally convinced they were her clothes. "It's the Alzheimer's, isn't it?" she said.
"I think it is, Mom. I'm so sorry."
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