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Jane was my mother. She was beautiful. She was smart. She loved the outdoors, her children and grandchildren, her garden, and sailing. And then she started to go away.

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Ann, my mother, was the youngest of six children, born in 1917. Her father was a lawyer in Hartord, CT. She married her sweetheart, Bernie, during WWII and they raised four children. Ann became an English teacher and taught high school English classes, specializing in Shakespeare. She retired at 62, when she began the long ride to insanity with Alzheimer's disease. My father was her caregiver for a decade. He was devoted to her, but his health began to fail with kidney and heart disease, so he finally asked for help from his children.

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“Okay, I’m ready to go.” He stepped out with his right shoe on his left foot, his left shoe on his right foot, and one shoe of a different pair. “Oh, Dad… C’mon, let me help you.”

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