Clues

Mom and I spend a lot of evenings watching TV together. If you ever need a tutorial in the various story lines of The Golden Girls, Andy Griffith, Leave it to Beaver or Murder She Wrote, I'm your gal. We've seen them all, multiple times, along with occasional episodes of Law and Order. Mom likes Jack McCoy's beautiful eyes. So do I.

Unfortunately, the line between our lives and the lives being depicted on these shows is beginning to blur. Last night, as we watched Matlock (“That’s Andy Griffith? When did he get so old?”) Mom noticed a bit of cookie left on her tray. I started to pick it up but she stopped me, saying, "Don't get rid of that. It may be evidence." I thought she was joking. She wasn't.

"Evidence for what, Mom?"

"The murder that they're investigating. I think we should save that and give it to them."

My heart sank. She didn't want to be convinced that there was no connection between the crumb and the plot of the show. I changed channels during the next commercial to divert her attention. This is a dilemma I face more each day-do I let go of facts in the interest of avoiding conflict or do I insist on getting her to recognize the difference between fantasy and reality?

When Mom first started forgetting significant events (and making up others) I couldn't allow myself to give in. I felt that it was important for her to stay firmly rooted in reality. “No, Mom, you’ve never gone skydiving.” Or, “I’m pretty sure you haven’t met Keanu Reeves.” Or, "Dad died several years ago. He's buried in Denver. We live here, in Arkansas." As time goes on, however, I'm inclined to let her “win”, knowing that in a few minutes the discussion will be forgotten.

But when she asks my name or becomes confused about our relationship, I'm compelled to give her time to consider the possibilities. I'm not prepared to be forgotten. "Who are your kids?” I ask, “Do I look old enough to be your mother?" Much to my relief, she eventually remembers. "You're Sandy! My baby! How could I forget that?"

When I heard her struggling with her walker last night I got up to help her to the bathroom. As I tucked her in she kissed my hand, pressed it to her check and said, “Oh, Sandy, what would I do without you?” But this morning, as I straightened her covers, she opened her eyes and said, “Thank you—I was cold!” then paused and said, “What’s your name?” I moved closer and held her hand. I waited. She looked at me, shuffling through her mental files, “Oh! Sandy! It’s you!”

Yes, Mom, it’s me.