Trying to Keep My Mind While My Mom Loses Hers

I have told people that my blood type has morphed from B negative to Cabernet positive. But oftentimes just a few sips of wine, while sitting outside listening to nature, is all I need to regain my patience, wash away the stress and reset my mind.

As I listen to the birds chirp to one another, I wonder if older adult birds ever forget how to fly. Or if old frogs forget how to hop. Are humans the only species afflicted with dementia?

Perhaps we are, because we have the capacity to understand the disease, and the tools to make our loved ones comfortable.

In my most patient moments, I use my imagination during our conversations. When my mom tells me she went for a walk or to the bank earlier that day, I play along. “Was it fun?” I ask. “Was the bank crowded?” I enter her world for a while. Even though it’s make-believe to me, it’s reality for her.

While sitting in our backyard, comprised of dirt and fruit trees and miles from the Pacific Ocean, I pretend to hear the waves. The squawks of seagulls flying overhead. The taste of salt on my lips. “Don’t you love the beach?” I ask my mother. She nods and tilts her head to the sun, a look of pure contentment on her face.

Those moments bring her back to her youth. I ask her about her early life, which is now getting very jumbled in her mind. I know she met my father at the beach. But I doubt she had sex with him that first day, on the sand, in front of her friends! Her story has evolved into this version.

I imagine this comes from their long-lasting love for each other. She was always very open-minded when it came to sex.

Laughter swirls around us, and for a few seconds, I glimpse the mom she used to be. I may be in our backyard, but she really is on the beach, feeling the grains of sand between her toes. These moments give me as much pleasure as they give her.

She was a progressive thinker — and the one person whose advice I could use now in dealing with her dementia. But that mom left me several years ago, replaced by a woman who can’t remember anything for more than a few seconds.

When I simply cannot answer her questions anymore, I hand her one of the dozens of notes I leave around the house. Because after answering her questions over and over I get confused myself, forgetting the day, the time and what we’re even talking about. The notes help, as she was always a big reader.

In the past, she led book groups and was always reading a novel. I have fond memories of seeing her stretched out on a lounge chair with a book in her hands. These days, she reads the newspaper and whatever else is on the kitchen table: a pill bottle, Costco advertisements, a bag of dog treats. The closed captions on the TV keep her entertained for hours. I have come to accept her talking out loud as the background sound of my current life.

I do give her sleep aids. This allows me to get a good night’s sleep. But when I hear her calling “help, help” at 3 a.m., it breaks my heart. I tiptoe into her room and assure her she’s safe and in her bed. Once back in mine, I listen to her, trying to replace the woman calling for help with the mom who tucked me in at night. I would give anything in my power to help her, but I can’t.

All I can do is cherish each moment of clarity, work on staying patient, and provide her with a comfortable home and loving care until the day comes when she meets my father on that porch, wherever it may be.

She’s been a first-class mom and deserves nothing less. And hopefully by the time she takes her final trip, I’ll still know who I am.​

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.