Conversation with Mom has become more difficult in recent years as the agonizingly slow effects of Alzheimer’s disease continue to disassemble her memory one neuron at a time.

Phone conversations have been reduced to 10 minutes, if that. I still call, even though she doesn’t remember when I don’t. What buoys me is her response when she hears it’s me. “It’s so good to hear your voice,” she says, whether I call twice a day or twice a month. She knows she’s swimming in a deep, dark fog, and my voice must be a brief, shining light.

I read with great interest a recent essay by Tim Kreider in the AARP magazine that asks that ultimate question when dealing with memory loss: “Who are we when we forget who we were?”

“We think of memory as what defines us, gives us continuity — a history — instead of a collection of disparate impressions,” Kreider reflected.

“Unless, of course, you have Alzheimer’s disease, in which case memory is pretty much dryer lint,” one of Kreider’s friends pointed out. His friend’s mother has Alzheimer’s.

That’s a pretty apt description of memory loss — fuzzy scraps of thoughts that don’t make sense any more: dryer lint, the stuff left over after we’ve tumbled through life.

Kreider’s question was thought-provoking for me as I considered who my mother is now that she has forgotten so much.

Mom is still a lovely person who wants to make sure she hasn’t forgotten her family members’ birthdays. She fights for her independence to the point of great frustration for my brother Rodney who helps her with many daily tasks. Mom insisted she send out Christmas cards last year but resisted any organizational tips or hands-on help. As a result, some of us got two Christmas cards; some had money in them, others didn’t.

The old Mom would have been mortified if her exact protocol for card-sending and gift-giving had not been followed. In the end, does it matter whether someone gets one card or three? Not really.

Mom’s sense of humor is still well intact, even though she knows her memory is fading.

Last year we got her a new mattress that featured memory foam. She’d been using it for a while, and when she heard us talking about the type of mattress it was, she exclaimed: “Memory foam? Well, it sure isn’t working for me!”

Rodney and I have been using Facebook to our advantage in communicating with Mom. He posts photos of where they’ve gone, whether it’s out to lunch at the Whistle Stop Cafe or the county fair. That gives me things to talk about when I call Mom and am desperate to keep the conversation going. I also use postings from other family members to give her a rundown of what the relatives are up to.

She’s very intrigued by Facebook, and wonders how she might tap into that bit of technology. Ten years ago, there’s no doubt Mom would have joined Facebook. I think it represents some form of memory for her, a running diary of who’s doing what.

By and large, my mother is still the same person she always was. She seems happy and content. She’s kind, courteous and loving.

We’ve learned to live in the moment with Mom. If she happens to remember what she’s done that day, it’s a bonus for us. If not, that’s OK, too.

We hate to think that one day she likely won’t remember us. Perhaps memory loss is such as long process because it gives us time to accept the unacceptable. When we reach that final stage, there will still be love between a mother and her children. That love will have to be enough.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.