My Name is Rhonda

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It was a cool, crisp fall day as I pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home. Living almost three hours away made it difficult to see my mother as often as I wanted to, but the driving and trips were always worth it.

Our mother had fought the ravages of Alzheimer’s for years, and it finally was taking a severe toll on her, my dad, and all of my siblings. In July of that year, we finally all agreed that we could no longer care for her physical needs at home. Their house was built in the early 1950s and it would take major renovations to make it completely handicapped accessible and there was just no time to wait.

It was now September and she had enjoyed almost two months in the facility where they provided outstanding care and support. With four siblings living very nearby and me being the only one living away, we were able to share responsibility and make multiple visits with her each day. Once of us was there to feed her breakfast, lunch and dinner and to say good-night each evening – the benefits of a large family!

This particular fall day is now emblazoned in my mind and I will never forget it. I can describe what I was wearing and every other detail of the day. As I picked up a few surprises I had brought to my mother and headed for the front door, I was glad to finally be here again. Walking down the long corridor to her room, I smiled and spoke to the many residents sitting outside their rooms. I rounded the corner and was finally in my mother’s room and ready to give her a big hug.

“Good morning – I’ve missed you,” I said as I dropped my bags and packages and headed for my mother who was sitting in her wheelchair.

But to my shock, she pulled back fearfully and appeared quite afraid as she said, “What’s your name?”

For a moment I stood silenced, shocked, afraid, and even angry. How could she ask who I was? I was her daughter.

“My name is Rhonda,” I said almost tearfully. The blank stare in her eyes and her hesitation were deafening to me. She did not recognize me and she was afraid of me. There had been humorous moments in the past when for a fleeting second she would say, “Which one are you?” referring to her five children, but this was different. She was clearly afraid of me and for what seemed like an eternity, we just sat and looked at each other.

For the next few weeks, her memory would fade ever so more and she would not remember most of the people who came into her room. On occasion, there was a glimmer of recognition but never the feeling that she really grasped that I was her daughter.

The day I had to tell my own mother, “My name is Rhonda”, is a day that I will never forget. She passed away on November 9 of that same year and as I stood by her graveside and laid a rose across her grave, I quietly told my mother, “My name is Rhonda — and I will always be your daughter.”

About the Author

Rhonda Day is a wife, mother and grandmother. Rhonda is a full-time freelance writer. Rhonda was a caregiver for her mother who had Alzheimer’s for many years. Rhonda is one of five siblings. Rhonda’s father and the five siblings cared for Rhonda’s mother at home for most of her illness.