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Our family is a family of joy. We really could live in the same house and not kill each other. We laugh often; at absurd movie lines, at each other’s quirks, and at bad (really bad) British accents.

Mom gets worse every day. And we are ever mindful of her condition, but it doesn’t stop us from laughing. She dubbed her illness ‘jungle fever’ before we knew what we were dealing with. That led to all kinds of bad jokes about the jungle and a constant loop of “Jungle Boogie” as she moved to accomplish tasks. She dances (like a 1970’s disco extravaganza) easier than she walks so we just started dancing everywhere. We dance to get her pills, she shimmies in her recliner at random times. She always seems to be up for a Jungle Boogie to make sport of her jungle fever.

She also communicates fluidly between several languages. Mom taught French, and speaks German and Japanese with decent fluency. She launches a statement in French and expects us to answer her the same. I get dinged for grammatical errors constantly- “Nous avons EU pas nous avons AVEZ” and the stink eye. One confused day she insisted I could make this all go away if I would just speak Portuguese. Uh, no hablo Portuguese, Mom. She didn’t believe me.

She did, however, wish to express her trust and favor in Mr Trump, aka Dad.

“And Mr. Trump, I just want to say how grateful I am that you are taking such good care of me.”

“I’m not Mr. Trump, honey. I’m your husband.”

“Well, I know you are, Mr. Trump. But don’t be modest. You’re doing a wonderful job.”

How do you not laugh at that? And how do you not laugh when you’re in the bathroom for long stretches waiting for her to go? It takes a long time to get her to the toilet, but it takes even longer for her to “figure out how everything works.” One day we sang, “Oh Danny Boy” followed by “I’ve got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” and “Yes, We have no Bananas.” Well, we don’t. My sister, inspired by Scrooge, did a whole lot of “God Save the Queen” until Mom, coming to a profound realization, declared, “I don’t believe I am a British subject!” Well, then, “I’m Proud to be an American” until the next time she insists we speak Italian.

It seems like this disease has boiled her down to the very essence of her character. The words are fewer, and the lucid moments less frequent. But her kind spirit and humble heart persist. I can’t count how many people have fussed over, fed, and wiped her. She cannot care for her own most basic needs. As the diapers leak, she spits food unintentionally, and the world discusses her hemorrhoids, we sing “Oh Lord, it’s Hard to be Humble, when you’re perfect in every way.” And she boogies.