Sunday, July 6, 2014

I finally got mom to sit out on the porch again. She refused to take a walk in the garden, feigning a stomachache. So I made her ginger tea and gave her candied ginger. She liked the candy and said she felt better. Mom asked incessantly—as is her wont—where Rob was. As he was mowing the lawn, he passed by the porch several times. She laughed and noticed he was wearing ear protectors. But later, she asked where he was again.

Is Rob sleeping?

No, he’s mowing the lawn.

Oh, I didn’t see him.

Yes, you said you saw him wearing the ear protectors.

Oh, I didn’t recognize him.

She hides her lack of memory cleverly each time. 

In the bathroom, I made her stand several times and then sit again. I thought this would work to help her evacuate her bladder more completely. She protested each time, saying she didn’t have to “go,” but each time, she urinated more. 

In bed at last, she calls again for a “Kleenex.” Mom always uses the brand name, even if it isn’t the brand name we use. She must have a tissue in her hand and protests vehemently when you take away a soiled one. She collects them and stuffs them everywhere as if they were her most valuable possession. Mom collects paper towels, tissues, and toilet paper. She even tore open a pack of cotton squares I use to remove mascara. Paper is her preferred material. She must have it in her hands, under her pillow, in her “panties,” and in every pocket. They must always be within reach. Tissues are her security blanket.