Don't Argue, Don't Reason, Don't Explain

My mother is fast descending into a twilight zone. She is having trouble concentrating and remembering things from moment to moment. Each time I see her, she seems to have gone deeper into the dimness.

One bright spot--really the only bright spot I have seen since she moved to California in January of 2008--is that she's writing in a journal. I bought her a blank journal for Christmas because she was writing bits of her past in the notebook in which she keeps track of doctor visits, upcoming events, and how to do simple tasks like bathing or turning on the heat. I said that she should devote a special place to her writing. Of all the many things I have encouraged her to do, writing seems is the only one she has taken to heart. And encourage it I do. I tell her that this is a great way to keep her mind involved.

Now when we get together, she asks if I'd like to hear her read from her journal. This helps tremendously, since her conversational skills have really deteriorated. Once I have asked her how she is and what she did during the week, she falls silent. This way, with her journal, she reads aloud to me and I ask her questions about what she's written, ask her to fill in details, and she makes notes in the journal that she says she'll flesh out later.

Last Sunday we sat in a coffeehouse while she ate a slice of cheesecake and read aloud of threshing cooperatives and her high school days. She wrote that she and her friend drove her brother Max's car to the last six weeks of high school, as he was serving overseas.

This didn't add up. My mom was born in 1921, which would mean that she graduated from high school in 1939. And she collaborated that, saying that she began her college classes at Gustavus Adolphus in the fall of 1939. So I asked if Max had joined the service prior to Pearl Harbor. She said, no, that he had served in 1944. I wondered how he could have given her his car to use if he hadn't gone overseas for another five years. She didn't understand.

I drew a timeline with her birth, her high school years, Pearl Harbor, and Max's service. She still didn't understand that high school and Max's absence weren't concurrent.

I said that this would be like me saying that Aaron had given me a beautiful Mother's Day gift while I was in high school, but Aaron hadn't been born yet. She didn't understand, but she knew she wasn't understanding something that she should have understood. When I realized this, it was too late. She was already near tears.

I felt so badly for her in that moment. She must be aware that she's slipping, but doesn't know what to do.

I need to remember what the UCI Medical Center psychologist told me about dementia: A-R-E. Don't argue, don't reason, don't explain.

From here on in, I will simply listen to her read, maybe ask a few questions. But if she has trouble answering them, I need simply say, "Please, Mom, read more."