Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Dementia at the Kitchen Table -

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Like so many of my friends, I recently brought my mother home to live with my family. At 92, Mom still laughs readily, especially at herself; still dances a few steps whenever she hears jazz; still loves literature, though she’s more likely to read Sue Grafton than James Joyce these days.

She just can’t remember anything.

We extracted Mom from her home of 40 years only by urgent persuasion and promises of eventual return. The place was a wreck, littered with crumpled tissues, filthy linens, mouse droppings and piles of junk-mail solicitations that confounded her. I do not think she will ever go back. And after four months of living together, I do not know if I can manage to stay. Mom runs like an Eveready battery. She is never still.
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