Too Late
By Esther Copeland
My ninety-year-old mom, Bert, is in the late stages of Alzheimer's and has been in a nursing home for twelve years.
I am her only family and love being with her as much as I can. We find meaningful, loving times together. I sing to her. We hug. We speak primarily through touch. Once a fun, witty woman, now she rarely has lucid moments where we can communicate. I am simply that 'nice lady.' She cannot move herself at all. Her hands are atrophied and the only movement of her body is when the nurses turn her in bed every two hours.
One day an aide went to check on my mother, who had been sleeping. She was shocked to find Mom on the floor, with no apparent injury, still asleep and snoring. The aide called to the nurse, "Bert has fallen out of bed!" The nurse immediately headed to her room saying, "Bert doesn't move. She doesn't roll. This can't be."
Even when in the room, looking at my mother on the floor, she was amazed and repeated, "This can't be! Bert doesn't move or roll."
The aide wondered out loud, "Maybe we should pull up the bed rails."
From my mother, came, "Don't you think it's a little late for that now?"
Mom grinned. The staff burst into laughter.
