Reminiscence: Mother, a Year Before

***
1

A short time before my mother was diagnosed with cancer (which soon killed her), although she – and we – had been spared the awful ravages of Alzheimer’s, nonetheless, she had moved to a significant level of dementia.

A psychologist specializing in geriatric cases, whom we had hired a few years before as Mother’s care manager, had correctly predicted that over time Mother’s already-noticeable short-term memory problems would become more prominent. But she was always quick to explain that Mother’s ability to reason would remain sound and that her basic nature and emotional responsiveness would be unaffected. Unless she later developed Alzheimer’s – which seemed unlikely – she would not become “another person,” as many say about their aging parents.

This also proved to be true.

This care manager had a lot of experience with old people; she was intuitive, empathetic, and articulate. She listened as well as she talked. Mother had liked her right away, though after a short time from one visit to the next, Mother could not remember who that nice woman was.

So the care manager was good, but on at least one occasion, she just didn’t “get” it.

2

A year or so before she died, my wife and I took Mother to dinner at her favorite cafeteria, where she and my dad had gone once or twice a week and where she had continued to go after his death when taking a friend or relative to a meal. When visiting her, it had been our custom for a long time to take her to the cafeteria at least once.

She knew what to order, and how to do it. Although the staff always had someone carry her tray for her, she could have managed that tricky business too, I feel sure.

We were chatting away, as the three of us always did, when Mother set down her silverware and looked rather intently into my eyes.

“’Byron,’” she said sweetly and simply, “I don’t know who you are. Are you my brother? My husband? My son? I don’t know.” Not knowing who I was, was apparently a curious phenomenon for her. But it did not seem a disaster or a cause of embarrassment, or even concern.

Trying to answer in the same simple, rather casual way, I told her I was her son, and she sat back as though satisfied, and picked up her fork. The conversation on things in general picked up again, barely missing a beat.

Although she never asked me again, Mother, of course, would not have remembered this conversation. But I did.

3

Next time I spoke with the care manager, I naturally told her about this brief conversation. We had weekly talks, sometimes lasting more than a half-hour as she would report her observations to me and answer my (many) questions.

But I didn’t have any questions about that incident, although it did seem worthy of being reported to her.

After I told her, she began speaking right away. She was immediately more animated than usual. Apparently, I learned, mine was not a particularly unusual experience. It was reasonably common for a person with dementia to forget her or his relationship with friends and loved ones.

As Mother’s care manager continued to speak, it slowly dawned on me that she was working to console me, to reassure me that I was nonetheless an important person, and also to warn me that such would probably not be a unique phenomenon.

In other words, her assumption was that I must have been traumatized by my mother’s little question, feeling suddenly that I had lost my dear mother, wondering how I could go on without her. In short, she thought I found it a very negative occurrence.

This was so wrong, so off the mark, I didn’t think it necessary to say anything other than showing gratitude for the helpful information.

4

It seemed so obvious to me: Mother’s little question had told me, shown me, that my mother loved me and trusted me. She thought I might have been her dear brother G------------, or even her beloved husband of over 50 years.

That was as positive an experience, it seemed to me, as one could have.

***