My mom turns 90 next month.
A few months ago she moved from one part of her assisted living community to an area where she could get more care. We never quite know what she’s thinking, but she still recognizes Patti and me even if she can’t quite remember our relationship to her or to each other. Looking at a picture taken 85 years ago, she thought her sister Kitty was me. She thought Patti was in the picture too, but we’re not sure which of her siblings was Patti. Probably Joe.
Most of the time, mom’s convinced her own mother is still alive. Like so many others with dementia, she remembers the ‘30s much more clearly than she remembers yesterday.
This was, I believe, her fourth move inside Westminster Canterbury, each time to a smaller room with more hands-on care. This was the first move she actually liked and you’ve got to love her reason:
“I’m the wellest one here.”
I expect my five-year-old granddaughter and not my 89-year-old mother to come up with a word like “wellest.” It’s perfect to convey what she meant. She knew she was falling behind in her ability to socialize with the others in her old section. Now when she repeats the same question five times in a row, she has the comfort of knowing her neighbors are repeating their questions six times in a row. We’re grateful that she still has awareness of something like that—and that she’s happy about it.
There have been times in recent years when I worried that mom was on the verge of outliving her life—that she was entering some stage in which it would be impossible to have meaningful interactions with people. It’s great to see her smile.
And I’m very proud that in her group of senior citizens, my mom is the wellest.
