She could eat nothing but Chips Ahoy! and ice cream and be perfectly content. She’ll go to the pantry, get a handful of cookies, and on the way back to the living room take a bite of a cookie, set it down, take a bite of another cookie, set it down, and by the time she gets to the couch, she might have one cookie left. Or none. Or she may sit down for a moment then say, “I think I’ll get a cookie” and the process repeats itself. Throughout the day I gather up cookies and put them back in the packaging.

And ice cream. Oh, how she loves ice cream. After every meal she asks for ice cream. As I walk into the kitchen to get it for her she yells, “And a cookie!” She’ll finish the bowl, bring it to me as I’m cleaning up in the kitchen, and say, “I think I’d like some ice cream.” Depending on how much energy I have, I may explain that she’s holding her empty bowl, and has just finished her ice cream, or I may simply dole out another scoop. Given how often she eats ice cream, I make the scoops appear large, yet they are hollow. I pull the ice cream scooper along the top of the carton, and the ice cream forms a large curl. I arrange the scoops so that it appears to be a full bowl of perfectly rounded scoops. I use tiny bowls so that it appears she has a lot.

Last night I walked into the kitchen and found Mom at the counter, scooping out her own ice cream. She didn’t have a tiny bowl, but instead a large coffee mug. And she was packing it in. She scooped almost a third of a carton of ice cream into the mug then walked onto the porch to eat it. The carton was still on the counter; the freezer door open. I tidied up and joined her on the porch. “Is it good?” “Mmmm hmmm,” she replied, staring into space and spooning bite by bite into her mouth, rocking slowly in the dusk.

It was ice cream that alerted me something was wrong. It was summer 2015 and Mom and Dad and I were in Italy. They would send me to the gelato stand to fight the throngs of tourists, while they found a quiet reprieve nearby. I’d get our cones, bring them back, and no matter what flavor Mom had asked for, she would say, “I didn’t order that” and take my cone or cup. At first I thought she was joking with me, even though none of us were laughing. One day I realized she really didn’t remember what she ordered, and took whatever looked best.

It’s somehow easier to deal with when I remember it’s not intentional; it’s how her brain works now. And when I remember to order two cones of the same flavor.