Dementia Diary: Queen Mother

She wakes when she feels like it, usually around 10 a.m. Her clothes are laid out for her where she will find them. She goes out with lipstick, earrings, hair combed. We, her servants (including Laura and Denise, both of "Visiting Angels"), drive her to restaurants, manicure, doctors, shops, and we handle all the payments.  Sometimes she says, "Wait! I don't have any money with me!"  I say, "You're like the Queen -- she just waves her hand and her people do the paying."  Mom laughs at that. Staff in Memory Care make her bed, clean her room, kneel to massage her sore knees, and offer her daily meds.

Looking back, I can see that all the emotional crises we had during the previous years came from one basic source: the dissonance between her self- image as an independent, take - charge kind of woman, and a thousand daily reminders that she couldn't manage. Now, she's never alone longer than an hour; her choices are limited; and she is the queen of her own domain.

And, dare I say, she's happy? For months, she has laughed at every little problem, every encounter, every piece of news. She laughed even when she asked, "Wait! What is my name?" There was a sad moment when she asked, "Do I still have a dog?" I reminded her that dear little Sassy had died a year ago. "That's good," said Mom, "because I haven't been feeding her anything."

[Photos, from top: Mom at her mirror; at our Sunday lunch; at Tiffany's Nail Salon; at 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday, listening to Frank Sinatra before she decides to get up and get dressed.]