Chapter II – It Was The Little Things At First

I’d share something very important with my Mom and before our conversation ended, she would ask me a question about what we already had discussed. I was hurt that she didn’t remember what I had said, for I thought she was simply tired of listening to me talk. (I can out talk most people even on my bad days.) It never occurred to me in the beginning that all was not well with my Mom.
After Renee had the same experience with our mother, we talked briefly about what it might mean. We decided that as our Mom was getting older, maybe we needed to have important conversations with her in person as opposed to over the phone. Maybe she was trying to multi-task while on the phone with us causing her to forget what we talked about even when it was important. I smile when I think of that discussion today, for it simply did not occur to us that something could be seriously wrong.
It was the little things at first.
We would go to the grocery store and my Mom would not remember the date that she needed to write on her check. Several times, even though we always went to the same store, she couldn’t remember on which aisle a particular item was located. That may not seem like a big deal, but my Mom is a creature of habit. She bought the same brand of the same items every week, even if a different brand was on sale. Not being able to remember where to find always purchased items should have been a key for me. At first, thinking how odd it was that she forgot the layout of her favorite store, I would remind her, saying, “You’re really distracted today.”
She would leave blank a section of a check that needed to be filled in and mail the bill anyway. When the check would be returned to her as incomplete, my Mom would explain it by saying she was busy at the time she wrote the check and her mistake was simply an oversight. She then would fill in the blank area; or write a new check. To my knowledge, she never was penalized for a late payment.
I tried to have dinner with my Mom as often as I could, especially when Tim was working late. One of the things my Mom loved most about her building was the dining room dress code: no t-shirts, shorts, jeans, or flip-flops allowed. Everyone looked lovely arriving for dinner. As my Mom required no assistance, her dinner time was the later seating (the earlier seating being reserved for residents who were in wheelchairs or had walkers and needed special assistance with their food trays). My Mom also loved the cafeteria style setup where residents could pick out whatever they desired in entrées, vegetables, salads, and desserts. My Mom, a dessert-lover, was in heaven. Each time I walked through the line my Mom was so excited, introducing me to all of the workers behind the counter, even if I had met them before. Then one evening, I showed up for dinner without calling her beforehand. She was thrilled to see me, but also seemed a little rattled. She was running around her small studio apartment looking for the guest tickets, which were required before I could go to dinner with her. She found them, but she didn’t seem like herself as we rode the elevator down to the dining room. When we got downstairs, the first thing I noticed was that she was attempting to enter the exit door of the dining room. I said quickly, “You’re going the wrong way”, and she said, “Silly me, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
As we entered the line, one of the workers said, “Hi, Mrs. Woodward, do you want your usual chicken?” My Mom looked around as if Mrs. Woodward wasn’t her name. Then she asked, “Do I usually get chicken?” The worker looked startled, for I think my Mom ate chicken every day of her life. Seeing the surprised look on the worker’s face, she quickly said, “Yes, my usual chicken is fine, and please give my daughter whatever she wants.” My Mom barely ate her dinner that night. In retrospect I wonder if she was feeling lost for the first time, as she had forgotten where the entrance was, her name, and her customary dinner fare. I didn’t do what I should have done that night, which was to comfort her because I didn’t know what she needed. She looked confused, but rather than address it, I continued with my usual dinner-time chatter.
One of the few things my Mom had become passionate about was Tai Chi. She began taking classes around the year 2000 not long after moving into Friendship Terrace. I don’t believe I’d ever seen my Mom that committed to an activity. …. Then one Tuesday I called to see how the class had gone. My Mom paused for a minute, and then said, “I was so busy today that I forgot it was Tuesday”. I could tell by her voice that she was stunned that she had neglected to attend her favorite activity, something she would never intentionally miss, and which took place right down the hall from her apartment. She then said, “I’ll be putting reminders up on the refrigerator so I won’t ever forget again.” I could tell she was exasperated with herself for her forgetfulness. I tried to reassure her…