My mother’s memory had been fading in and out. A few months ago, she was diagnosed with moderate Alzheimer’s Disease. “Moderate” is the place on the continuum where the doctor determined the disease had progressed at the time. For example, on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 — not so noticeable and 10 — can’t get any worse) she was about a 5. Her mind was razor sharp until recently. She no longer connects the dots regarding most subjects like she used to, and her word-retrieval has noticeably diminished.

But here’s the upside: Right now, Mother is unbelievably funny. Everything that comes out of her mouth is simply adorable.

It might be nice to be able to say that I have a sharp mind just like my mother had once upon a time. But I am not the brightest bulb and I never have been. I have survived 47 years with a memory that does not function quite so well. So for me, poor memory is what I know as “normal me.” Mother’s mental agility passed right over me in the gene pool but stuck firmly with both my children. What I lack in brain power, though, I make up for in creativity. I feel like the trade-off is more than fair. For the most part, my head is a happy little place.

The big picture is that Alzheimer’s is a cruel, humiliating and brutal disease. But on a day-to-day approach, I am finding this creativity trait a pleasant element in communicating with my mother.

Sometimes Mother does not know who I am. Honestly, that does not upset me. And you know what? Some days I would really prefer to be someone other than me. It seems that on just those days when I am feeling less than grand, Mother has forgotten who I am. It is really quite perfect. I get to be whomever she needs me to be, and we both part having enjoyed the visit with whomever I might have been at the time. The latent thespian in me appreciates the challenge.

More often than not, Mother still knows who she is. But during a Christmas activity, she was trying to answer trivia questions. One question: “Who was the First Lady during World War II who wrote a children’s Christmas storybook?” With complete conviction, Mother looked at me and said under her breath, so as not to give the answer away to others, “That must have been me.” I couldn’t stop laughing and simply had to agree with her.

Mother’s word retrieval is now worse than mine usually is. One afternoon, we were driving through town and passed by Wilkerson’s Funeral Home. The parking lot was packed Mother said, “Wow! Look at all of those cars! Someone must have REALLY died.” I started laughing, equating it in my head to being “really pregnant.” Really dead. I had never thought of it that way. I could not stop laughing, so she started laughing.

I have been dating a gentleman that Mother knows. I grew up down the street from him in Greenville. She recently asked, “What’s the name of that guy you are ... um ... looking at?” “Excuse me?,” I responded, while laughing. “That guy who you are ... um ... looking at? What’s his name?” “Lee?,” I asked. “Yes! He’s so nice. He looks like his mother,” she concluded. I got the giggles imagining myself just standing around awkwardly looking at him, and she started laughing. It was hours later that I realized what she meant to say was, “What’s the name of the guy you’ve been SEEING.” Making sense sometimes takes a little more effort on my part.

Mother told my son, David, to please call her whenever he wanted to speak with her. David said, “OK, Grandma, what’s your phone number?” She said, “Oh, you know ... 422 — (a couple of clucking sounds) dop dop (and a couple of smacking sounds).” David and I started laughing so hard. So Mother started laughing. David and I pictured her speaking some language indigenous to a rain forest. She was so darn cute.

You might feel somewhat unsettled with my finding laughter while Mother’s deteriorating condition is a reality. I can understand that perspective. But please know that for the past few months, each time we are together, Mother says, “I like being with you because you laugh.” The laughter is genuine. Mother is truly funny. The mental pictures that her remarks conjure up in my head are priceless and a delightful new addition to our relationship.

And Mother’s remarks about enjoying the laughter are sincere. The laughter is, after all, a blessing to us both. It is our opportunity to genuinely love and enjoy each other during the reality of this disease.

So with an attitude of gratitude, during this time, I will laugh, love, and completely enjoy being with my mother.

Jane Edgerley is a freelance writer and divorced mother of two who was raised in Greenville.