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Shivering, I hustled to the main entrance eagerly tapping the buzzer. The door, armed with a shrieking alarm, keeps me from entering and I wait anxiously. A prickle of apprehension ushers in the reminder of where I am and the shadow of her decline.
Finally inside, my hands glide hastily through the pages of the sign out binder and I scribble our names.
Ambling down the short corridor I am awash...

Penning the narrative of my life I share the stories that stir my soul, those fragmented pieces arriving in waves as the frailty of the mind unravels...
Settling nervously in the waiting room, I notice the fear collecting in her eyes as she shudders away from the pen. My thoughts vacillate, querying the things she can no longer do while I dislodge the pen from the chair and inscribe the necessary...

"If you learn to listen for clues as to how I feel instead of what I say, you will be able to understand me much better."
As the storm quiets
The anger lingered in the air even days after she left, a cold silence that slowly enveloped the room like a dying flower casting wilted memories of exasperation that I could not erase.
It was our first gathering since she was placed in the nursing home...

 “I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
—Khaled Hosseini    
The words trickle out like tear drops drenching the page as my reasoning collides. The guilt baptizes me in this steady torrent of emotions while I examine the connection of heart...

As we travel down this uncharted path of dementia I unpack the stories that fill our days, each detail lingering in a frightening aspect to the life we are struggling to comprehend.  With a fitful personality and the unending mood swings I witness her competence vanishing rapidly before me.
Approaching the next phase in this journey and transition to the nursing home has increased her fear precipitously...

“Sometimes our vision clears only after our eyes are washed away with tears ~unknown
As I step into the surge of water cascading from the wall, the angry stream scolds my face while I allow the anguish to cauterize me. Squeezing my eyes closed, I remain there, as if surrendering will wash away the hurt. Permitting the painful, yet soothing water to sting at my expression, while I muddle through...

what I've learned from Dementia...
When someone is mean, it is usually because they are hurting in some way. My mother has never been a mean person, in fact she never spoke up for herself, even when it would have been understandable.
Throughout life we meet people we think are friends, and find out, sometimes the hard way that they are not, discovering their toxic ways when they hurt more than help....