As Mom’s dementia progresses, she becomes someone I love spending time with even more, and this causes me considerable distress. Why is it that I love her more as her brain deteriorates? And who is the *real* Mom? Is it the Mom who I knew for ~50 years? The one who criticized me and told me I wasn’t good enough? Or is it the Mom from the past 5 years who calls me sweetheart, who hugs on me, who tells me she loves me? Or is it okay for her to be both?

She shakes her hands and arms when I arrive to visit, with tears running down her face. She asks me if she can go home. When I tell her yes, she stares earnestly into my eyes. “Really? Really?” she asks. “Yes,” I tell her. I don’t know if home is a place, or home is people. I don’t know if it matters.

I buckle her seatbelt and we go on our way. We sing the songs she loves and drive on roads where the speed limit is low, and few cars are to be found. I ask her if she is happy and she says yes. Every so often, she sweeps her arms in front of her and says, “So beautiful!” We might be in the city, or surrounded by farms, or in the woods. It doesn’t seem to matter. It’s just that we’re not in her room, and she’s happy.