Two years ago, at age 79, my mother became an olah hadashah, a new immigrant to Israel. We moved her to live in the small apartment above my sister Ruth’s home within the Old City in Jerusalem. In the years preceding her move to Israel she had descended into the fog of Alzheimer’s disease. Her engagement with the world had diminished; her memories were dissolving. All that she was and all that she represented was replaced by the poignant image of who she had become: frail, confused, angry and profoundly dependent. Thus, in a decision filled with pain and anguish, our family decided my mother should spend the remainder of her days in Israel.