A change in medication has triggered Mom’s talk function. She talks constantly. Which would be comforting, except that her speech is complete gibberish. She produces sounds, but not words, for the most part. And she appears to be making so much sense to herself. Her body language matches the inflection of her sounds. I act as though I understand her, and nod along, or say, “Really?” or “No!” or “Tell me more!” at appropriate intervals. She seems to enjoy our “conversations.” I’m devastated I can’t understand her. I would love to know what she’s saying.

My mind flashed back to the trip we took to London in 2003. It was the 100th anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ first flight, and round trip tickets to London on British Airways were $100. Mom flew from Atlanta and I flew from San Francisco and we met in Heathrow. I was so excited. I wanted so badly to have a positive experience with Mom. I thought this would be it. A week, just the two of us, exploring London and going to the theater. A mother-daughter experience to remember forever. We shared a room in a bed and breakfast with two twin beds. At night, I would pepper her with questions. “What did you enjoy about today?” “Tell me about when you lived in New Orleans.” “What was it like to have four siblings?” “What was it like to move around so much as a child?” “What first attracted you to Dad at college?” She shushed me and told me it was time to sleep. During the day, it wasn’t much better. She answered me with curt responses, and I finally accepted that this might not be the vacation I dreamed it would be. Our conversations were restricted to logistics. In Heathrow, as she was headed towards her gate for Atlanta, and I was heading for my gate to San Francisco, I hugged her and told her I loved her. She told me this was the best trip she had ever taken. I stood, dumbfounded. This might have been the most uncomfortable trip I had ever been on. She barely spoke the whole week. I hugged her again and told her I was so happy she had had a good time. 

As we walked around the outside of the facility today, we passed by a fire hydrant painted yellow with a white top. She stopped to speak to it, then laughed. I laughed as well, and when we started walking again, she turned and waved goodbye to it. She seems to relish being “the funny one” and is delighted when I laugh, and then she laughs, and then tears are rolling down our faces. Growing up, Dad was the funny one. He was so witty, and charming, and articulate. And Mom didn’t talk much. She wasn’t shy. When she had something to say (which was often critical) it was said. And she wasn’t often the life of the party. I’m happy for her. She seems happy. Confused at times, but for the most part happy. She has a beau who loves on her. She enjoys going to the ice cream shop and having me feed her spoonfuls of cookies and cream ice cream. We enjoy sitting in the sun on the patio and holding hands.  I try to remember this, and be happy for the life she’s living.