November 12, 2015 

Every day, we go through the litany of questions. The same ones over and over and over again. Mom will often ask where I work, if I have to work, when I have to go to work, whether Rob works, where he works, and on and on and on. So I have decided that little information will work as well as complete information.

Sandy, where do you work?

I work over there, mom.

Oh, that’s good.

When do you have to go in?

Later, mom.

Oh, good. Be careful. 

Mom wouldn’t remember what I told her no matter how often I told her. But I have found that any answer suffices. Specifics are no longer necessary. So “over there,” “here,” “later,” “today,” or “tomorrow” are as good as any answer. I think all mom wants are answers, tangential or otherwise, which suffice as an interaction or an acknowledgement.

Mom never listened for answers even when she was relatively cognitively intact. When I was in high school, I recall a woman asking why my mother asks questions yet never waits for the answer; she would instead ask yet another question. This woman’s observation served as a revelation for me. I had been so used to my mother’s ways. For the first time, I realized my mother never discussed anything with anyone. Asking questions was her way of participating in a conversation that would never become a discussion. She worked with a set of questions then that serve her even now. I later determined that she has been nearly deaf since childhood. Listening was too much of an effort then. Today, she doesn’t even bother, being locked in her own ever-shrinking world.

Where does your brother work, Rob?

No, he’s retired.

He’s a leader, isn’t he?

No, he’s 78 years…

How old are you, Rob?

I am…

Do you have the TV on, Rob?

So since mom cannot remember anything I say, I say less, but I do answer. To do otherwise would be cruel. I acknowledge her question, her presence by my words, any words. The answer never mattered anyhow. And it matters far less now.