She was curled up in a ball on her bed, underneath a heavy quilt, even though the temperature was in the 80’s. I slipped my shoes off, and curled up behind her, my tall body enveloping her short one. She slept, a dainty snore escaping her. I wept, silent hot tears rolling down my cheeks. I try not to cry when I’m with her.  But sometimes, it just happens. 

She eventually stirred and sat up. She looked at me with bewilderment. I stroked her hair. “Hey, beautiful.” She stared blankly past me.

I helped her put her shoes on and she walked, zombielike, to the car. I helped her into the car, and buckled her in. We went to our favorite bakery. I sat next to her, on the metal outdoor furniture on the deck, feeling the imprint that would render my thighs criss crossed. I broke off a piece of the bran muffin and offered it to her. She ate it, staring into space. I asked her if she wanted some water, and held the cup up to her lips. She took a sip, then waved me away. I tried to offer her another bite of muffin, and she took my hand, as though she were giving me the hand massage that comes standard with a manicure. She then popped each of my fingers, and pulled my hand close to her mouth. She sucked on my middle finger, as though trying to drink from a straw. I watched this with surprise and awe. “Hey, Mom, are you thirsty?” She stared at me blankly. I pulled my hand away gently, and offered her the cup of water. She looked at me quizzically and pushed away my offering. She picked up the bran muffin in its paper wrapper and slowly, methodically, started to tear the paper then try to eat it. I simply watched. When she didn’t find satisfaction in the paper, I offered another bite of muffin. She smacked her lips, much as a baby bird would while waiting for the mama bird to feed them a worm. I put the muffin in her mouth, and she chewed, robotically. 

When we got back to her residence, I asked the caregivers if they had given her extra medication that day. I hoped that they had, to explain the zombie like behavior. I hoped that they hadn’t, because I don’t want Mom to live in a state of druggedness. They had. Mom had dropped a resident’s dog earlier. I can’t imagine that she intentionally tried to hurt the dog. She had picked it up, and was holding it tightly. They told her to put it down, so she did. By just dropping her arms and letting it fall to the floor. They got upset with her, she became agitated, they gave her a sedative. I get it. And it makes me sad. One thing I’ve learned throughout this journey is that conflicting feelings can all be true, all at once. 

A nurse called me later that evening. Mom had a UTI (urinary tract infection). UTIs can wreak havoc in people with dementia. It adds even more confusion, and increases the likelihood of agitation. I thanked her for letting me know, and said a silent prayer of gratitude that they discovered this quickly and ordered antibiotics.