In a couple of hours, I’ll drive the short distance to where my mother has lived for a month: in memory care with others who are like her. They’re in their later years, and in cognitive decline. It’s taken me a few days to decide how I’ll handle this visit because each one has been different from the preceding one. This isn’t necessarily because of who accompanies me or what we decide to do. Often, it’s related to her mood. This, more than anything, has had a profound effect on me.

I’m never sure who I’ll find when I arrive. Will she be the pleasantly surprised woman who asks for a hug and tells me how happy the visit makes her? Or will she be defensive and attempting to exert some level of control? Will she be truthful, or pretending? She’s admitted to acting as if she feels differently than she actually does and not being truthful. That hasn’t helped.

The last visit, earlier this week, was made on a whim after I spoke to her on the phone. A staff member had called to say that she was “short”, a word I’d never use to describe the behavior she explained. My mother had been flying F-bombs, starting arguments with other residents, and accusing the staff member of stealing her purse and credit cards. The woman, who was calm and professional as she relayed the early afternoon events, said she thought my mother was going to slap her.

I apologized and she told me it was unnecessary. Unfortunately, that sort of behavior is something they are accustomed to. But she wanted to know if I would call her, hoping it would help settle my mother down.

As expected, the call didn’t go well. I reminded her that I had her purse and wallet and that she had no credit cards. That legally, she could no longer access her money. This set off a barrage of comments about not being able to walk to the store (which she hasn’t done in years), to choose her own groceries, or even to choose what to have for meals.

There’s a story stuck in her memory that involves walking to Whole Foods to have a “half glass of wine that cost nine dollars”. She believes she did this frequently when she lived in Florida no matter how many times we’ve explained that it happened once in five years. That outside of walking her dog around her apartment complex parking lot several times a day, she rarely went anywhere — especially unaccompanied.

I know reasoning with someone who has dementia is not recommended. She doesn’t realize she is incapable of choosing groceries, or ordering from a menu. In fact when I prepared meals for her, there was no discussion of what she would be eating because I quickly learned she couldn’t decide something as simple as whether breakfast should be hot or cold. Scrambled eggs and toast, or yogurt and granola? Or whether the personal pizzas we made together had pepperoni or sausage. Yet when she is in scary mode, she believes many things which are far from being true. It wasn’t a surprise she hung up on me that day.

I told my husband I’d feel better if I made a visit. It would help the anxiety that seems to have taken up residence in me since February. But when I arrived, she was sitting with others watching a colorized Shirley Temple film on the huge flat screen in one of the common spaces. She didn’t seem to recognize me as I approached, but I noticed that her fairly new glasses were hanging from the beaded necklace I purchased so she’d always know where they were. I sat behind her without getting her attention and decided to just observe the room. In the half hour I was there, she turned to look behind her and right at me twice, never registering recognition. Outside of being annoyed because one resident kept standing in front of the screen, she seem relatively calm and quite different from who she had been on the phone.

I decided not to disturb her that visit because I’ve seen how her mood can change suddenly. She goes into the bathroom and comes out completely a different person. I didn’t want to cause that after a rough day.

It’s time to make sandwiches and a small salad. I’ll add some fresh cherries and stop on the way for cold beverages. The sun is out now after a good rain this morning, so I’m hoping we can take a walk, then find a bench to enjoy the picnic. I’d like to think we can have a conversation, but now, that only consists of what I’m doing during the day. She can’t remember much of what her days entail.

I know she believes we’ve conspired to lock her up and that she doesn’t belong there. That she took care of us, so why don’t we want to take care of her? She’s forgotten that we have for years and years in many ways.