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Mom has a touch of the Alzheimers.

Well...it's more than a touch.

The first thing you should know is difficult to admit: I like Mom with Alzheimer's more than I did without.

"Do I have money?" she asks, curious and hopeful, like a child wondering if they'll get ice cream later.

"Yes, you have money," we say.

She is surprised and asks where, and we tell her, in your wallet. She finds a handful of twenties and asks if we just put it there.

She wants to be able to pay someone, but she can't quite remember who.

Mom asks how much money she has. "You have enough," we say.

Sometimes she squints her face and gets enough courage to ask twice; we tell her how much, even though we've told her how much dozens of times before.

When Mom is sundowning, fatigued from the length of a full day trying to process memories, she asks if we can bring all of her money to her. If it's hers, why can't she have all of it - in the house, somewhere she can see it?

Before Alzheimer's, Mom wanted things just the way she wanted them; she decided the way things should be and rarely let things be the way they were.

We lived in a dollhouse of her making; she loved with direction. Now, anger mostly passes like one of her thoughts: here for a moment, gone the next.

Mom is locked out of her online bank account, which is a shame because it's how we pay her bills. We call Bank of America, which says we cannot solve this over the phone, and we must visit a branch.

There, I explain I'm the power of attorney.

"Oh, POAs can't get access to online banking," the BOA rep says, as if providing excellent customer service. "Why don't you bring your mom down here?"

I note that Mom has Alzheimer's and that would be very confusing to her, which they say is a shame - and then we go around in circles with nary a solution in sight.

At home, I call BOA and put Mom on speaker to verify that Mom is Mom and I'm the POA. Mom is present in the moment.

She is thankful for the help and excited that we accomplished something when BOA puts me on hold for forty-five minutes to send me to another department.

Mom smiles proudly when I demand to speak to the manager.

Mom used to have rules; hers needed to be ours. Now she's just happy to be taken care of, in whatever way we determine is best.

Three hold times later, BOA has a solution: "I'm going to ask you three questions," the BOA manager says. Mom leans forward, excited to be involved.

Her eyes ask if it's ok to answer.

"In 2001, what color was your Lexus?" the BOA manager asks.

My mom blinks, confused. "I had a Lexus?" she blurts, amazed at the life she had lived.

"Green, black, gold, red - or none of the above?"

I become frustrated and tell the BOA manager that this process is absurd and inconsistent with the way things should be. I remind the BOA manager that Mom has Alzheimer's - something I've been told not to say in front of Mom.

Mom gives nothing, processing, hurt maybe, and I wonder if I've broken something.

Mom moves on.

Mom would never have moved on so fast before.

Mom guesses the wrong color. The BOA manager is a daughter and a mom, too, and - after a short process of elimination - Mom gets the right answer.

Everyone shouts together, as if witnessing their favorite player score a goal in the World Cup.

Later, after online banking has been restored, I tell Mom that I'm leaving and she says, "I'm so lucky."

She's lived a good life, and now so many people are helping her.

She's energized, almost jubilant - and she wants to be sure she's no burden at all.

At the door, she asks if she can ask me a question and then inquires, in a bit of a whisper, "Do I have any money?"

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