I’m my mother’s friend, according to her. She looked at me as she leaned against the car and we were preparing to get her into the front seat. There were witnesses surrounding her as she pointed to me and proclaimed, “There’s my friend.” There were awkward giggles from those around, but she repeated herself. It’s official: Alzheimer’s is kicking my mother’s butt. It’s hard to see, but it’s now the norm. Gone are the days where she makes sense. Gone are the days where she strings together words into a complete sentence. Gone are the days where she remembers where she was born, any event from her past, or what she just had for dinner. It used to be my mother caring for my father in his poor health, but he turned 90 this month and now seems to be the parent in better shape. Our family is very fortunate to still have both parents with us, but it does not make it any easier to watch. My father has Alzheimer’s too, and was actually diagnosed prior to my mother, but he is sharp as a tack. My mother fell and hit her head and went downhill fast. We still get her smile once in a while, and that’s about all we get, but at least she is still with us. That doesn’t change the fact that Alzheimer’s can kiss my ass.