The other night at bedtime mom was very confused, could not comprehend anything I said— the words “going to bed” made no sense to her. She did not know dad or me, or where she was, scared… We got her toileted, and teeth brushed, and to bed, but she could not follow the simplest instruction.
Growing up, I remember reaching the age when I could tell that mom was playing dumb for my dad, and it bothered me. She knew I knew, and eventually I made my peace with it— she’d simply decided to be the person he was in love with, because she loved him. Early in her disease, the dementia pulled aside that veil—her inhibitions went away—which I found delightful, but dad was flabbergasted. Now, when she has her deep lapses, it’s hard for me to acknowledge that it’s who she is. I want her to wake up, as if she’s still pretending. And even at this late stage she’ll occasionally come through—lucid, articulate—a source of wonder.
Last night, after dad had left the room, she took my hand and said my name. “Mitch,” she said, clear as an autumn sky, “do you think that I should be more normal?” I told her I didn’t think she needed to pretend anything anymore, which made her smile.
