My mother had Alzheimer's disease. My younger sister and I entered her bedroom, in the apartment in the Pelham Parkway section of the Bronx. My sister came in behind me and we sat on the bed.

All my life, in family matters, I was the "chosen one." My sister got what was left over from my adoring parents. It started as a child. I was eight years older and it gave me a real head start. I was the favorite of my family and I never relinquished the title.

Actually, I was a cute son-of-a-gun. Everyone thought I was Irish even with a name like Greenberg. I had wavy, curly hair, tons of freckles and my cheeks were pinkish. Family dynamics are hard to fathom. I knew I didn't deserve all that adulation but I certainly knew I wouldn't give it up.

As we approached my mother's pale, gaunt face she turned quickly to me and blurted out my name. It came out of her Alzheimer's fog but it made me feel real good.

As my sister approached, my mother made no sign of recognition. My sister announced her own name. She did it once and then again, even louder. Still no recognition. Only silence.

I felt very uncomfortable and I was quite sure my sister was deeply wounded. I could say or do nothing that would be meaningful so I kept my big mouth shut.

We, my sister and I, discussed this bedside meeting many years later, when my mother had already passed away. Even years later, there was still nothing to say or do that would remove the hurt of that day in the Bronx.

Being the "chosen one" sometimes has its drawbacks!