The visit to my mother

Every Sunday, when I'm in Belgium, I visit my mother (other days in the week too, if possible). It's a routine since childhood, when I was studying and living away from my parent's home.

It's a pleasant routine, always has been. For most of us, going back to the place where you started your life, and to the people who raised you to adulthood, is a wonderful thing to do, it connects you to your past and shows you possible ways of your future.

My father deceased some years ago, only my mother is now still alive. She was born in 1924, between the two big wars that tortured Europe in the last century. In 2009, she'll turn the 85th yearpage of her life.

Yearpages are the only pages she still turns. It goes by itself. Other pages are meaningless to her. My mother has dementia.

Just like the rest of our bodies, our brains change as we age. Most of us notice some slowed thinking and occasional problems remembering certain things. However, serious memory loss, confusion and other major changes in the way our minds work are not a normal part of aging. They may be a sign that brain cells are failing.

The brain has 100 billion nerve cells (neurons). Each nerve cell communicates with many others to form networks. Nerve cell networks have special jobs. Some are involved in thinking, learning and remembering. Others help us see, hear and smell. Still others tell our muscles when to move.

To do their work, brain cells operate like tiny factories. They take in supplies, generate energy, construct equipment and get rid of waste. Cells also process and store information. Keeping everything running requires coordination as well as large amounts of fuel and oxygen. And the fuel runs out.

My mother's factory is slowly closing down. Her memory lasts for only seconds. Keeping everything running has become a snailprocess. She sleeps more then she's awake. She still speaks, but with words I can't understand. But I still feel if she wants me to reply "yes" or "no". And as long as I can feel that, I reply her in the way she wants me to. That comforts her.

Visiting my mother is a pleasant routine, always has been. It shows me possible ways of my future.