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.

It’s becoming painful to be around Mom. She’s so confused; my heart breaks for her. She’s so restless. Even on sedatives, she is unmoored. She lays down, she tosses and turns, she gets up after a few minutes, she walks around aimlessly, as though she’s searching. She sees things that I can’t, she reaches into space to grab something that’s not there. She swats at me. She tries to eat my hands when I attempt to feed her. Her words generally don’t make sense to me. I feel so badly that she’s communicating in a way that is coherent to her, and I simply cannot understand. I try different responses. Some land, some don’t, and with the ones that don’t she becomes even more frustrated. Today, as we were on our afternoon drive she started screaming and crying, clutching her stomach. I asked her if she wanted to go home, and she nodded. I turned the car around, and we were back at her residence within 10 minutes. I asked her if she needed to use the bathroom and she nodded, then walked into a closet. I gently lead her to the bathroom and helped her on the toilet. After she finished, she seemed to be better, but nodded when I asked if she was tired. She laid on the bed, curled up, and I sat on the bed next to her, in the curve of her stomach, stroking her hair. She began to relax, and I told her it was okay. She could leave when she’s ready; we’ll be okay. She opened her eyes and cried, “Jerry!” As tears rolled down my face, I continued stroking her hair and asked her if she was ready to see Dad. She nodded, and her eyes closed.

We pulled up to the restaurant. Mom clapped her hands. We’ve been coming here weekly (sometimes more) for the past year and a half. The staff are so incredibly lovely to us, nodding along when Mom utters nonsensical words and smiling at her. As I opened Mom’s car door, she was taking off her sweater. “Hey Mom, whatcha’ doing?” She muttered some incomprehensible syllables. “Let’s put that back on so we can go inside the restaurant.” She continued to wriggle her arm out of her sweater, and I noted she didn’t have anything on underneath. “Are you hot, Mom?” She shook her head. I unbuckled her seat belt and guided her right arm into the arm of her sweater as she wriggled her left arm out. I considered our options. 

• I could let her take her sweater off, and we could sit in the car until she was ready to put it on, and then we could enter the restaurant. 
• We could go to a fast food drive through, and it wouldn’t matter if she were wearing clothes or not. 
• I could appeal to her sense of vanity and tell her how beautiful she is in the sweater.

I went with option 3, and surprisingly it worked. For a moment. 

As we sat at the table, waiting for our food to arrive, she wriggled and began to take her sweater off. “Hey there. Let’s leave that on for now, okay?” What could I say that wouldn’t anger her? What could I say that would encourage her to stay clothed, at least while we were at the restaurant? 

She stood up and walked to the table behind us where a man, between my age and hers, sat, along with a woman, likely closer to my age. She mumbled gibberish, then leaned in for the kiss. I hugged her tightly and tried to pull her back from kissing the man. She swatted me away. The woman seemed amused; the man, not so much. I led Mom back to our table. 

It was time for her dose of antibiotics, and she needed to take it with food. I gave her the pill, and told her to wash it down with tea. I saw her start to chew and said, “No – swallow it.” I could have been speaking Mandarin. Words mean nothing now. She pursed her face, swiped out half the pill, and threw it on the floor. I picked it up and wiped it off. I knew she needed this in order to feel better. She wouldn’t swallow it, though. I picked up a French fry, stuffed the half a pill into it, and handed it to Mom. “Want a French fry? You love French fries.” She ate it, and didn’t spit anything out. 

I was grateful.