A Separation of Sorts

 

I don’t know why I continue to visit. Mother no longer recognizes me and usually calls me by her sister’s name. Yesterday was the worst visit. When I put my coat on to leave she began rummaging through her closet.

“What are you looking for mom?”

“My purse. I can’t go without my purse!”

“Oh, I think you are staying here for dinner.” I tried to keep my voice light.

“No! I’ve got to get home to fix dinner for Al. He likes his dinner on the table after work.”

I knew not to tell her my father had died ten years ago.

Today she has asked me at least three times when we were going to eat lunch, even though we’d just left the dining room. The nurses tell me this is not unusual behavior for a person with dementia. But their words are not comforting. This is not how my mother, always a proper lady, should act. And if she realized she had soup spots on the front of her blouse she would be highly embarrassed.

Little by little she is fading way. Some day she will be gone. I guess this is a form of trial separation.

——

http://writingthe200.wordpress.com

This weeks prompt was “trial separation”

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