Guess who showed up at my mother's apartment on Wednesday?
"Oh, look at those roses. They smell wonderful! It's so good of you to share. You do have some beauties."
"How am I? I can't complain. Oh, wait, I'm me, so I probably will."
"Don't push yourself so hard. You have lots to do."
"I love you so much."
And that, my friends, is the cruelty of this disease. Is it better to see her as she used to be, only to be surprised when someone else appears in her place the next time? Or is memory better than reality, if reality is fickle?