Having escorted my mother-in-law to the chupa of one of her many grandchildren, I protectively held onto her delicate form as we stood among the crush of attendees at the traditional outdoor ceremony. The dreamy look in her misty eyes divulged that memories of long ago were being roused by the sentimental ritual, transporting her perhaps back to the days when she was the belle of the ball and would kick up her heels – as she had often alluded to in the not-too-distant past.
My father-in-law had given up the brave fight somewhat sooner than his staunch aishes chayil. Quietly, without fuss – as was his nature – he left for a better world, his son assuring that he died as he had lived: respectably and with dignity, in his own bed, meticulously cared for by his very own flesh and blood.
Despite the tenacious grip of an unrelenting and devastating disease that mercilessly squeezes every vestige of memory and cognizance from its victim’s brainwaves, my mother-in-law retained her impeccable refinement and gentility . . . and reserved her warmest smile for me. For the better part of her stay with us, we undertook her personal care by ourselves. (Finding help that would meet our criteria for mental and physical proficiency and finesse seemed almost a futile endeavor.)
Either way, I always looked forward to being there for her at bath and bedtime – convinced that no one else could set the water temperature just the way she liked it, and confident that no stranger would assist her in a way that befitted her stature and that would allow her to retain her self-worth. And who would think of giving her that spontaneous hug just when she seemed to need it most?
As I tuck her gently into bed, she expresses her gratitude and asks, “How many children do you have?
Yingelach? Meidelach…? Chasuna gehat?” – then blankets me with her blessings, and I thank her in turn for affording me such golden opportunities and priceless moments.
With nary a quibble, she accepted her fate of being catered to and then some, yet she was not one to relinquish her pride. When my husband, attempting to stimulate her thought-processes and rouse her from lethargy, would taunt her good-naturedly about her day-to-day accomplishments, I would rescue her from discomfiture by countering his jibes, extolling her multiple achievements over the years. As she’d absorb the lavish praise, her shoulders would visibly straighten. “Di herrst? (You hear?)” she’d address her disparager. “Zi iz mein friend!” she would proclaim (often failing to discern the true nature of our kinship).
I will forever treasure the Friday nights we had occasion to spend in each other’s company. Garbed in her traditional white apron, fringed white shawl draped across her shoulders, she would recline in an armchair with her timeworn prayer book and contemplate the holiness and mysticism of her Shabbos lights.
I often wondered what secrets the dancing flames related as she reposed in euphoria. When I came to Lecha Dodi in my own davening, I went to where she sat an did what I love best (but seldom chance upon the occasion or the audience). Radiating pure joy, she’d urge me to sing louder and clap her hands in appreciation. She had long forgotten the words, but I had revived them for her – another bygone memory momentarily reawakened.
To counter her melancholia (another byproduct of Alzheimer’s), I’d belt out my favorite zemiros tunes Shabbos by day, to be rewarded by her springing to life and chastising, with childlike innocence, the man at the head of the table. “Zi ken besser zingen vi di! (She sings better than you!)”
