The Blue Bowl

My mother's dementia reminds me of that photo in, "Back to the Future." Remember Marty's picture of he and his siblings? They were each slowly fading away. First his oldest brother, then his sister, then Marty himself. If he didn't get his parents back together when he went back in time, then none of them would be born and they would cease to exist.

It was always my impression that dementia also worked this way. Mom would first forget her great granddaughter, then the grand kids, then her own children, eventually my father, and finally the rest of her past would also fade in the end.

But this is not the case. Her great granddaughter visits weekly so Mom recalls her on occasion. Sometimes she forgets her name, or that Gabby had been there the previous day, but for the most part could remember some bit of this child.

The struggle for me is that has completely forgotten my father. She has gone back in the past to pre-husband days. I'll ask her something about Dad and when she looks at me quizzically I'll say, "You know, Bob." She's replies, "Bob who?" It is maddening to me.

On my last visit, I brought a picture of her and Dad for her room. She recognizes herself, but not her husband. I had also brought an old bottle of his aftershave thinking that if she just took a whiff, she would be able to conjure his memory.

During my visit, she saw the picture again and said, "Well that looks like Carol, but it doesn't look like her boyfriend." I told her it was my Dad. I received a blank look. "You know, your husband." You could see her eyes squint like she was thinking really hard. Finally, I'm like, "You know, he had a heart attack. He had a double aortic aneurysm. A corroded artery. He was on dialysis for 13 years." She looks at me and says, "Well he sounds really healthy." That part was definitely my mom. A sarcastic sense of humor.

While it broke my heart, I decided to give up on this portion of her memory. I began to set out my suitcase and a few items I had brought for the weekend, one of which was a small, blue crock bowl that I use to make oatmeal. She looks at the bowl and says, "I've been looking all over the house for that." I had forgotten it was her bowl that I took from her home when we were cleaning it out to get ready to put on the market. I couldn't believe she had forgotten Dad, but could remember a stupid blue bowl.




Be grateful for small moments. It is a struggle. Not for her. For me. Someday she'll also forget the bowl. For now, I'm glad we could share a moment. Even if it's not the moment I wanted.