It was Wednesday - my day off.

I traveled across the Throggs Neck Bridge to see my mother in the Bronx. My mother was in the beginning stages of that awful disease called Alzheimer's.

She would move in and out of reality and recognition of people, places and events. I was just getting over my guilt at not assessing my mother's illness at its inception. For a dentist it was troubling not to be a keen diagnostician. For many prior months my mother would stop people on the street (policemen, mailmen, anybody) and introduce me as "My son, the dentist." It was embarrassing to me.

I pleaded with her to stop, but she persisted. My wife finally made the proper appraisal. Alzheimer's! I knew it was a fact, and I was ashamed.

When I picked her up on Matthews Avenue in the Pelham Parkway section of the Bronx we headed toward Orchard Beach and City Island. We would have a nice fish lunch and take a little walk. "Mom, any day you see the ocean is a wonderful day," was my adage to my mother.

On the way to City Island, I spied a golf driving range. It was a bit early for lunch and I decided to hit a few golf balls. I am not a golfer but hitting golf balls was good exercise for a dentist who was cooped up all week in an office.

As I splayed golf balls to the left and right (very few down the middle) my mother sat on a bench and watched. There was an elderly gentleman sitting alone on the bench. In a few seconds he and my mother were engaged in an active conversation.

Soon she ran up to me and loudly proclaimed, "Stanley, he's like you. He's a dentist." I stopped hooking and slicing and introduced myself to the senior citizen. I mentioned that I had seen his shingle for many years and I was pleased to meet the man behind the shingle.

"I have sold my practice," he declared. "I am 80 years old, my wife is gone, and I just come here to watch the people drive golf balls. I was quite a golfer in my younger years and I was part of two separate foursomes, but all the other guys are dead and gone now."

Tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes as he related this emotional tale. He looked away to avoid showing the deep feelings he harbored.

I said calmly, "Why cry? You are still alive."

He looked down, wiped his eyes, and stated very softly, "It's very lonely."

e-mail accpeted at shgreenbug@aol.com