Guilty Pleasure

It’s becoming a guilty pleasure every time I visit Mom that Bea tells me I’m a good daughter and Newton strides over for a one-arm hug.  Mom is still having a difficult time adjusting to her new surroundings but I am seeing progress.  She is wrestling with her inner Girl Scout and calling up her can-do spirit.   The food is lousy but she eats it.  The room is spinning but she stands up.  She can’t remember she went to knitting but she will trust me if I tell her we did.

I thought dementia was simply about forgetting but apparently it is about a whole lot more and I am just beginning to figure it out.  It’s so painful to watch.  I’ve coined a phrase, “we don’t put our dogs through this,” but I don’t even know what I am saying.  Who is putting Mom through this?  Certainly not me.  Bea told me I’m a good daughter.

I know when I walk out the room, she doesn’t remember I came.  She can’t remember that she ate lunch in the dining room with her new friend Bea. She’s not even sure Bea is her new friend but she is starting to recognize her face. 

A Cat Scan (not a Dog Scan,) shows Mom’s brain has shrunk.  I wonder if this is the reason the room spins for her now.  I ask and I’m told that isn’t dementia.  Who knows why the room spins, I certainly don’t and neither does anyone else.  And just when I thought Mom couldn’t reason anymore, she tells me what she’s got to do.  She’s got to stop trying to figure out what’s what and get stronger so she can walk out the door.  It’s her guilty pleasure and each day she’s dreaming about it.