Summary

A son writes a heartfelt letter to his mother with Alzheimer's, updating her on life events, including his bout with COVID-19, and inquiring about her well-being and adventures.

Abstract

The author of the article, addressing his mother who has Alzheimer's, shares a personal and intimate update about his recent experiences, particularly his contraction of COVID-19 and the subsequent isolation it necessitated. He expresses his longing for her and mentions that his sister, Marcia, also misses their mother. The article touches on the impact of the pandemic on their lives, including the cancellation of their Thanksgiving plans. Additionally, the son describes a minor surgery to remove a Basal Cell Carcinoma and humorously compares his quarantine experience to that of Tiny Tim from Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." He also provides updates on mutual acquaintances and reminisces about their shared past. The son closes the letter with affection, a photo of his cat Bailey, and an invitation for his mother to share her own news. The website also features links to the author's other works.

Opinions

The author is concerned about his mother's memory, as he reminds her of their family relationships and past events.
He expresses a sense of humor in the face of adversity, such as when he describes his quarantine experience and the lack of variety in his meals.
The author shows deep familial love and care, especially when discussing the well-being of his mother, sister, and grandmother.
There is a sense of frustration with the pandemic's disruption of normal life, particularly the cancellation of Thanksgiving plans and the need for quarantine.
The son values his mother's adventures and inquires about them, indicating a desire to maintain a connection with her life despite

RELATIONSHIPS | MOTHER & SON | I MISS YOU

Dear Mom,

A Thanksgiving Story

(Not a Medium member? Click to read this story, gratis.)

Christmas Cactus | from the author’s collection

First Things First

Hello, how are you, and all that jazz?

Second Things Second

I miss you.

Third Things Third

Marcia (that’s my sister, your daughter, in case you forgot in your Alzheimer’s) misses you.

Fourth Things Fourth

Grandma misses you. You remember Grandma. You told her you wanted a box of Godiva chocolates in your casket.

She said, “I don’t see why. Where you’re going, they’ll just melt.”

Fifth Things Fifth

When are you coming home?

Sixth Things Sixth

How the Devil are you?

Seventh Things Seventh

I got covid-19.

Marcia tested negative the same day I tested positive. Symptoms started for me on Friday last. By Sunday, it was serious. I went to the Regional Urgent Care clinic. That’s where I tested positive and Marcia negative. Wonder of wonders. The doctor said I was severely dehydrated. He reminded me that dehydration and covid are a foolproof recipe for a visit from Thanatos. He sent me to the ER for blood work and IV fluids. I slept until noon Monday, woke up, and had no symptoms. I felt even better Tuesday. Miracle, huh?

Fluids, fluids, fluids! Marcia makes me drink so much that I float to the bathroom (the only outing from my bedroom that I get). I have a canoe but only one paddle. I tried to buy a little 1 hp, single stroke outboard motor, but Amazon couldn’t deliver it in time.

I don’t know how she escaped it. We never go anywhere but together. She says I don’t wash my hands enough, but the damned thing is airborne, so what does that have to do with anything? Besides, I do too. (pout)

I get tired after about 14 hours awake. I have a bit of a residual cough that brings up some phlegm. At least it no longer feels like hot coals being raked over my lungs. That was the worst pain. It was as bad as when I passed a kidney stone. That one hurt some. I almost fainted at my desk.

The CDC says I can be contagious up to 10 days after symptoms disappear. So, I have to isolate in my bedroom until 3 Dec. to protect Marcia. She’s not allowed past the threshold. She keeps the door as far closed as possible when she brings stuff or takes it away.

So far, she has no symptoms, but she has to quarantine until 7 Dec.

Eighth Things Eighth

Our Thanksgiving dinner with Cheryl and Mary Jane sort of flew out the window. We’re having oatmeal. There are no craisins, so I have to eat it plain. I feel like Tiny Tim in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

I had a small Basal Cell Carcinoma removed from my left forearm. I watched the surgery with avid interest. Marcia almost upchucked when I told her about it. Now she has nightmares about Dr. Frankenstein cutting into her and making her watch. No. Just kidding. But, she’s not too pleased with me for having described the procedure to her.

The scar looks a little gnarly right now. Maybe it will calm down with time. But it’s OK if it doesn’t. It will give me street creds. I put Vitamin E oil on it. It’s already looking more oily than ever. Ha. Ha.

Ninth Things Ninth

Alright. Enough from this end. Let’s hear some of your adventures. How’s the house coming? Is the neighbor still letting you have some of your own water? I hope the horses fared well on the trip. Oh yeah, Ken too. (He’s your boyfriend after your second husband left you, in case you don’t remember.)

I hear you had a marvelous week of sun and fun in beautiful downtown Limon, CO. Of all the gin joints in all the world, you have to break down in that one! Grandma’s 1,000-acre farm was about 60 miles due south of there. When wheat prices weren’t so good in Haswell, we used to take it to Limon to the grain elevator. (You remember. You used to take me shopping there when you were bored because there were no cars going past the farm on the dirt road and you had no one to wave at. Once, we found a rattlesnake-bite kit for a dollar.)

Haswell is about 40 miles southeast of the farm. It is a grain elevator, a gas station, a feed store, a general store (feed for the humans), and the houses of the people that own them. It sits astride Colorado 96 in the middle of nowhere. It’s about 4 blocks long along 96 and one lot deep on either side. You can spit from the grain elevator to the southern town limit. No stoplight. No stop sign. No school zone (no kids), so no reason to slow your speed. At 70 mph, if you blinked, you missed it. (You remember. You used to drive the 1–1/2 ton dump truck, with 18 forward gears and 4 in reverse, loaded with wheat there in the late summer.)

Just think, you might have broken down there. You’d have had to sleep in the lobby of the elevator.

Last Things Last

Time to go. Marcia just brought me my morning gruel. Apparently, she too thinks I’m Tiny Tim.

Much Love, Your Son

Alex🏳️‍🌈🇺🇸 [email protected]

PS: This is a photo of Bailey. He’s my Manx. He is a pedigree — papers, a coat of arms, and everything. I call him my Aristocat.

Bailey, the Aristocat | from the author’s collection

More From

The Hilarious Thing My Mother Said On Coming Out to Her

Reminiscences of 1970s San Francisco

medium.com

I Did Not Say It When

When first we met I might have said, “I will not love thee for thy life But for the rest of mine.”

medium.com

They is stupid if they thinks that they has changed the English language.

When feminism took control, this is what happened.

stevealexander-48.medium.com