My mom is having a horrible time at the Hebrew Hotel on the Hudson. She says she’s never coming back to this place again, at least not by herself. She can’t wait to get home, which is unusual, because she was never happy to go home in the past; she always wanted to stay.
The place is just not what it used to be, she says. Especially the restaurant. Where else would they tolerate someone getting up out of their seat repeatedly and making loud unintelligible noises while spilling their drink on purpose? Certainly not in Niagara Falls, my mom’s hometown. This place has really gone downhill and it’s gotten strange (she’s never heard of a restaurant that gives out free meals, but she has to admit there’s an upside to that).
And she doesn’t like that curtain down the middle of her suite, separating of her bed from a bed reserved for another guest. That’s really weird, isn’t it?
My mom confusing a nursing home for a vacation spot might be kind of funny if she wasn’t in incredible emotional pain so much of the time, weeping uncontrollably whenever I see her or talk to her on the phone. I might be able to laugh if there was actually a home for her to go to, or if I didn’t have to lie just to give her even one moment of relief, security, peace.
“I’ll take you home tomorrow, Mom,” I say.
Alzheimer’s is cruel.