Deirdre Neilen, PhD: David Ram is a poet who lives in Massachusetts. He sent us a poem that contains all the heartache, all the love, all the rich history that exists between a mother and son dealing with the mom's Alzheimer's. Here is "Follow-Up Visit with My Mother," dedicated to Mary G. Ram (1923-2001).
When I see in the phone my silhouette
reflected in the photo of a store
display, I remember your instruction
about a common childish frustration:
we cannot be in two places at once;
lacking the power of bilocation,
your words, we must choose between here and there.
Ages later we're sitting side by side
in your neurologist's waiting room,
when out of the blue, you say, "People who
don't know me don't know I am not myself."
I know you. I know you are both here and
someplace far beyond my understanding,
a place from where you will never return.
Sitting across from the doctor, he asks
where you are. You tell him confidently
you are here. When he asks, following up
where here is, you sigh, then slowly, as if
for a little child, enunciate,
"I am here, and you are there," gesturing
both hands at this innocent, getting schooled
in logic by his Alzheimer's patient.
He goes on, asking who I am. You shrug
silently. He repeats his question.
Looking at me, you say, "He's a good guy."
You may not know where we are or our
relationship, but you know here and now.
I'm a good guy. What more, Ma, could one ask?
