My Side of the Conversation

(Plus the Stuff I Can't Say)

I’ve talked before here about my mother and her dementia. I’ve spoken to a lot of people about similar journeys they’ve taken, or are taking, with their parents. I think one of the things that most everybody struggles with is the need to eventually stop correcting their mom or dad, to stop saying, “No, Mom, remember…” Because they don’t remember, and nobody wants to be constantly reminded that they are forgetting.

After my mom was given her diagnosis, her doctor told me privately, “She probably won’t remember and there’s really no point in reminding her.” As the disease progresses this advice becomes a guiding principle and you start wrestling with the need to lie. Or at least not correct their misstatements. It took me a long time to get there.

It’s so hard to let go of the idea that you can't remind your parent who they are, who they were. You correct them to try to keep them. When you stop correcting them it can feel like giving up, like letting go. You are relinquishing them to a world where you don’t live, where you can’t even visit. It’s also when you start grieving the loss of them. They are in the process of leaving you and you have to watch them recede further and further from the life you lived together.

In the last few weeks my mom has gotten very quiet. Her voice, when she does speak is thready and weak, and she is speaking less and less. But there was a time not long ago when she would talk a lot. But it often didn’t make a lot of sense. I was always relieved when a visit would overlap with an activity. It was easier then to sit next to my mom in a seated exercise class, or even better, to paint watercolors together while she sipped a non-alcoholic wine. We could chat about colors and admire each other’s pictures. We didn’t need to make conversation about our past, the future, or the world we really don’t share anymore. We were meeting on neutral ground.

I joked to my husband that talking with her without an activity to distract her had become like an improv exercise. I never knew what she might say, often had no idea what she was talking about, and in my head I just kept reminding myself to follow that classic rule of improv: “Yes, and…” In other words, just go with it. Don’t correct, don’t argue. However, I don’t know about you, but there were times in my life when arguing with my mom was like breathing, it came very naturally. I was good at it. Truth told, I still am. But I’ve learned to fight the urge, for the most part.

Those conversations were weird, sad, confusing, frustrating, sometimes surprising, almost always there was some humor in there. Laugh or cry, they say. And our family tends to lean into the laughter. I’ve written a lot of the conversations down and can go back and trace her decline through the words we exchanged. It’s a hard record to revisit, but there are some comforts in it. She’s far less anxious now than she used to be. She’s not aware of the time between my visits anymore, so she’s not missing me, or worrying about me.

The piece below is a fairly faithful record of a visit from a few months ago. I let my husband read it yesterday to see if he thought it was ready for primetime. I heard him chuckle, I heard him wince, I saw him shake his head and smile and then look really sad. That all seems right to me, so I thought I share it with you and see what you think.

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My Side of the Conversation (Plus the Stuff I Can't Say)

I’m sorry, Mom, what are we talking about?
Your car? (You don't have a car) 
The girl who drives your car? (You don't have a car)
She didn’t drop the keys off? 
Well, you must have a second set, 
don’t you think? (For the car you no longer own)
Sure, I’ll find them. 
I bet they’re on the hook 
by the door. (There's no hook by your door anymore)

Wait, who works at the store? (What store?)
Oh, the girl who drives the car, right.
No, I don’t think I know her. 
She’s my sister? (What?) Oh, okay, that girl. 

No, my husband doesn’t work at the store. (What store?)
Nope. He has the same job. No, not at the store.

I think she’s fine. 
We haven’t spoken recently. (Not in years)
Yes, they are divorced, Mom. 
For a long time. 
That’s sort of an odd question. (WTF?)
But, no, they don’t still sleep together. (WTF?)
Because they are both married to other people.
No, you don’t own her house. (You don't own any house)
Yes, I’m still in the same house.

No, I’m not getting a divorce. (Not this again!)
Pretty sure. 
I think I’d know if I was getting a divorce. 
Yes, I would tell you. 
(Jaysus, Mom!) No, I am not getting a divorce.

In the fall? 
What do I need to decide about the fall? 
No, mom, I’m done with college. (For like thirty years)
My kids are in college now, though. (Do you remember them?)

I’m fifty-three, Mom. 
Well, I wouldn’t lie to you about that. (I lie to you a lot, but not about that)
Yes, yes, I do believe that I am fifty-three. 
Well, that’s fine. 
You don’t have to believe it. (How old do you think I am?)
 
It’s okay. You don’t have to go back to work right away. 
(You've been retired for more than twenty years)
You’ve got time to think about it. 
Who? No, I don’t think I know him. (I don't think you know him)
No, I don’t think he’ll mind if you get a job.
No, you don't work here. 
Okay, I guess you do work here. (My bad)

I’m not sure where she’s going. 
No, Mom, I’m your daughter. 
She's someone who works here.
Yes, she’s very nice. (And very patient)
I’m not sure where she’s going. 
Maybe to get you some water. 
I’m right here, Mom, I’m your daughter. 
I didn’t leave. Mom, I'm right here.

No, Mom, you never had any sons. (I know, I was supposed to be a boy)
No, no sons. Just daughters. 
Really. 

Your nails look very pretty. 
Did someone paint them for you?
Your daughter? That's nice. (By your daughter you mean that nineteen year-old with the nose ring?)

Are you getting tired? 
You could take a nap. (You were napping just now)
No, I don’t mind. 
I should be going, anyway. (I really need to get out of here)
Yes, I’ll come back soon. 
Yes, I know where you’ll be. 
Don’t worry. 
I will find you. 
I love you. (I love you)

Yes, your extra set of keys are on the hook by the door. 
Yes, I’m sure. 
Yes, I’ll make certain she returns your keys.
Yes, of course, the car is in the parking lot. 
Where else would it be? 
Bye, Mom. 

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Thanks for reading, everyone. I should have some reading recommendations for you next week.