The Parts of Her We Carry

Trigger warning: This story contains themes of Alzheimer’s disease, memory loss, grief, and Holocaust-related trauma.

“Hannah, let me cook you breakfast. Like I used to. Please,” Ima had begged.

I look at the woman in front of me, the woman who was once unstoppable, and try to see past the confusion in her eyes.

Lately, all my mom does is sit in that old, brown leather chair, her head cocked towards the window. Staring at something beyond the concrete driveway.

She wasn't like this before. No, that extraordinary, cunning woman could never sit still. She was a single mother of three, working double shifts at the hospital.

Every morning when I was a kid, I would find my clothes laid out for me in my closet. When I crossed the threshold into the kitchen, the familiar smell of scrambled eggs and toast instantly overtook me. My two older brothers and I used to sit down at the table, never offering to help; instead, we used to watch Ima's hands flutter above the stove. Grabbing the salt and pepper shakers while mixing at the same time. All the while, she used to hum her favorite song, filling the silence that would have otherwise settled over the kitchen. Steadily, she poured the eggs into four plates evenly, placing a piece of toast on the side as the finishing touch.

“For Hannah,” she said, prolonging my name. She always put my share of breakfast on the placemat first. “For David. For Noah. And for me!”

Now my two brothers are living abroad. My three children and I are all she has left. Two weeks ago, I started working remotely to spend time with her, hoping to get a glimpse of the person she used to be; hoping to get a glimpse of my mother. But Alzheimer's was like a wild animal, devouring everything that made Ima who she was, until I fear there won't be anything left.

That's why I had reluctantly accepted her offer. Now, Ima is hunched over the stove, and the pervasive smell of scrambled eggs hangs in the air. She begins humming the same tune she used to sing when I was a child, and it fills my heart with a familiar warmth. It's the same kitchen, the same breakfast, the same melody. Except something's different; she's different.

Ima's hands no longer move swiftly along the stove. Instead, her weak fingers tremble as she slowly stirs. Her eyes no longer have that same resolute spark inside of them. Rather, she has a wearisome, tired look on her face.

She painstakingly lifts the frying pan with a quivering arm. I expect her to get a plate, but she forgets. Ima walks over and places the pan in front of me.

When I look down, I frown. The eggs aren't properly mixed, with several bits of yolk and eggshells inside.

My eyes stay fixed on the plate. I can't bring myself to look at her. I don't know what to do in moments like these. I don't want this Ima to be the one I remember. I want to remember the Ima who used to play cards with me, who used to teach me everything she knew. I want the mother who used to insist that we take family photos every single Hanukkah, Pesach, and Yom Kippur. Every year, I still gather my children for family pictures. They complain, just like I used to. But I always insist. One day they'll understand why, just like I did with Ima. I used to think she just loved taking pictures. But now I realize that she wanted us to have a way to return to the people and moments we loved. She had once lost everything: her photographs, her family, her home. The only pieces of her past she had left were her memories. And now Alzheimer’s was taking those too.

“Ima, I…I can't eat this."

“You used to love my cooking…" She says, her forehead creases, as if she's struggling not to let Alzheimer's take this memory away.

“I did. I do. I just…I just think you're tired.”

The rest of the day I cook lunch and dinner and work on my computer. Ima sits in her chair. For hours. Unmoving. At times, she grabs our family photo book but quickly puts it back down, a quiet tear rolling down her face. When I see this happen, something inside me aches. I wonder if she's trying to reach for the faces she lost and has spent years trying to hold onto. Trying to etch her memories into her brain, like writing engraved in stone, hoping that'll stop them from washing away. It's a cruel irony that the person who cherished memories most would have them stripped away from her. After everything she had already lost, Ima knew better than anyone how fragile memories were.

She was a brilliant woman who lived through hardships most people could never imagine, yet she somehow found the strength to keep going. Her husband was imprisoned for being Jewish. She fled Poland while pregnant, carrying two babies and nothing but the clothes on her back. Ima left behind everything and everyone she knew. She arrived in Chicago with no family, no home, and no certainty of what came next. Yet she built a life, and she filled it with memories that would outlast her own.

At night, I lay in my old bed. Looking up at the ceiling. I can't sleep. I feel a gnawing cold creeping inside of me. I feel so hollow and alone. Why does this need to happen to such a brilliant person? Why? Sometimes I think Alzheimer's is worse than death. I think it's better to die than have this inexorable thief steal one memory at a time. Dehumanize you. Kill you while you’re still alive. But I shove this thought deep inside of me, until it's only a throbbing discomfort I ignore.

I start hearing a low whimpering coming from Ima's room. I quietly get up, slide into my slippers, and feel my way towards her room. The hallway looks so much darker than I remember. I feel its cold hands seize my throat as I open the door to her room.

Although it's dark, I can see her face gleaming with tears and a wet patch on the pillow.

“Ima, is everything alright? Why are you crying?” I ask as I rush to lie beside her on the bed.

“I-I don't want to forget. I don't want to fade Hannah.”

I don't know what to say. What could one say that could make up for that kind of loss? Instead, I hold her in my arms and stroke her hair, just as she once did for me, and just as I now do for my own children. Still, I wish it was the other way around. Before I know it, tears are flowing down my cheeks. I try to build a dam, something, anything, for it to stop. But I'm helpless. The same way my mom is helpless against Alzheimer's. The same way I'm helpless to stop it from making her fade, from taking away my mother’s words, her memories, and the small things that made her Ima.

The next day, we are waiting for the bus to take us to an orchestra for which I had gotten seats. Ima and I used to love hearing classical music together. I still see her face light up when she hears it. The doctors said it would be good for her if we did something she used to enjoy. But maybe I need it just as much.

We're seated at a bench in silence. I hate that she doesn't start talking. She used to loathe silence. There is not one moment I remember with her in which she isn't teaching me something new or debating about a random topic.

In no time I hear the roar of the bus coming to an abrupt stop.

I hurriedly stand up. “Ima, come on.” I grab her hands and pull her to her feet. We start walking. Suddenly she halts. “Ima let's go so we can get a good seat.”

“No,” she whispers.

“What do you mean, no? You love classical music. Let's go.”

“No. My photos…I need to go back.” She starts to pull me back. “I need to get my photos!” She starts yelling, and I feel everyone's eyes burning into my skin as their heads turn towards us. “My photos! Please!” I give up and let her drag me back to the bench. “I need to go back! I can't leave Sarah! I can't leave…” Her voice slowly drifts away, and she is left quivering.

It was a desolate, freezing night when we left Poland, or so Ima used to tell me. Everything was deafeningly silent until explosions began echoing a few miles away. It was a desperate, last-minute decision. Ima didn't have time to pack. We ran out the door and just kept running. When we had finally embarked on the train, breathless and panting, Ima remembered the cherished photos she left behind. They were memories of her long-lost sister, Sarah; of her parents; of her aunts and uncles; of her cousins. My brothers told me that every night she used to hold them against her chest until she fell asleep.

“Ima, you're not in Poland. There are no photos,” I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible, trying not to start crying too. Before I know it the bus doors close. I stand up in a heartbeat, hoping to stop it. But the bus disappears down the street.

“Oh Hannah, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Ima, it's okay. Everything's okay. Don't worry,” but I don't mean it.

The following day, I figure the best thing is for Ima to spend some time with her grandchildren. So, I call my children, tell them about what happened yesterday, and all of them take the day off from work.

They are all in the living room, while I'm cooking in the kitchen. When lunch is ready, I peek my head through the door to call them. They're all playing bridge on the floor.

“Yes!” Eli, my eldest daughter, cheers, throwing a fist into the air. “I won the auction using your strategy, Savta!” She turns to Ima, and together they perform their secret victory handshake. I laugh because it's the same way I used to celebrate as a child. Ima has a smile on her face unlike any I've seen in a long time.

A warm feeling overtakes me and embraces my heart. For the first time in a long while, I don't see what Alzheimer's has taken from Ima. I see everything she has given us. I realize that a part of Ima lives in me and in each of my children; in every lesson she taught us, in every tradition she passed down, in every piece of herself she gave away. Alzheimer's can take away her memories, but it cannot take the pieces of her we carry.

I sit down beside Ima and join the game.