Ross! Ross! Where Are You?!

“Ross! Ross! Where are you?!” It was Labor Day weekend 2007, and my mom’s Alzheimer’s disease was now fully overwhelming her. Just the Sunday before, she and I had traveled to the Washington, D.C., area to visit her high school friend Gloria and her husband George. Although she had an obsessive attack the day before, she was fine most of the time it took for the three-hour trip from our house north of Philadelphia to visit one of her best friends. My only concern was managing Mom’s visit to the ladies’ room at the rest stop on I-95. I stood by the door and decided if she didn’t come out I would ask someone to go in and check on her. She had done well. We had a nice visit, including lunch at a Chinese restaurant. We took a picture of Mom and her friend. Clearly the picture showed Mom clutching a tissue in her left hand, something which she did most of her life. (Shirley with the runny nose is what she said they called her as a child.)
Now just one week later, she was screaming, angry and frightened. Alzheimer’s can be frightening for family members, but imagine what it must feel like to the person with the disease. They feel anxious, unsure about what is happening and everything seems wrong.
Each time I would try to leave her bedroom and go downstairs, Mom would yell, “Don’t go anywhere. Stay here. Come back now!” Up until this time I had been managing, although there were many difficult events and I was constantly cleaning up and doing things for her while I tried to keep up with the workload and stress of my job selling insurance.
I felt tremendous stress. I felt like I was trapped. If I tried to leave to go grocery shopping or go to work at my office, she would chase after me banging on the garage door as I drove my car down the driveway. I also felt I could not leave her alone. My life and her life were becoming impossible.
“Ross! Ross! Where are you?! Don’t go anywhere!” she shouted. It was the worst feeling I had ever experienced.
“Ross, Rossy bossy, come in for lunch.” It was the summer of 1955 at our home in Baltimore. Mom was a young mother of 30. I was her second child just about to turn three. My brother Roy, who always looked after me, was now six.
Dad was at work. Mom, Roy and I sat on the front steps of our little one-story suburban-style house and ate what she called “Jewish Chop-Suey.” I am not sure why she called it that. It was a bowl of sliced cucumbers, chunks of tomato, cut up radishes and gobs of sour cream and cottage cheese. Maybe it was one of those neat little treats her mother invented and gave to her during the Depression. I always liked it and still make it occasionally today.