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Nov. 28th, 2010 12:45 amDinner with the parents, overnighting in Boston on their way north from a Florida trip. Surprised and dismayed to learn that my mother, who turns 80 next year, is crossing over from battiness to dementia. This came out not in explanation but in demonstration, apparent to everyone else in the room -- including my father, who looked on, saying nothing.
What was there to say, though? I have always enjoyed telling stories about the random stuff my mom does, even when it's frustrating to experience. But there's not much of a fun story in how she handed me the same piece of paper no fewer than four times, each time starting to tell the story of where she got it and what I should do with it, as if she'd only then remembered to tell me. Or how she repeated a story from my childhood for Amy's amusement three times. Or, indeed, how I'd never heard that story before, and (since the story ends with "me" delivering a smartassed punchline) suspect it's actually something she saw a child actor do on TV, and is confusing with a real memory.
This is not okay, and suddenly not funny anymore, and that makes me confused, upset and gloomy.
On returning home I felt compelled to drink wine and play an escapist videogame for two hours. As the sanest and least-disabled person in the family, managing this is all going to fall to me, and I'm not ready to think about it yet. I suppose it's good in a way to make this discovery now, rather than later. I will be ready later.
It breaks my heart to think about how my father must feel.
What was there to say, though? I have always enjoyed telling stories about the random stuff my mom does, even when it's frustrating to experience. But there's not much of a fun story in how she handed me the same piece of paper no fewer than four times, each time starting to tell the story of where she got it and what I should do with it, as if she'd only then remembered to tell me. Or how she repeated a story from my childhood for Amy's amusement three times. Or, indeed, how I'd never heard that story before, and (since the story ends with "me" delivering a smartassed punchline) suspect it's actually something she saw a child actor do on TV, and is confusing with a real memory.
This is not okay, and suddenly not funny anymore, and that makes me confused, upset and gloomy.
On returning home I felt compelled to drink wine and play an escapist videogame for two hours. As the sanest and least-disabled person in the family, managing this is all going to fall to me, and I'm not ready to think about it yet. I suppose it's good in a way to make this discovery now, rather than later. I will be ready later.
It breaks my heart to think about how my father must feel.
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