Easter Sunday


I’ve mentioned this before, but I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to blog about Mom with dementia.  It’s hard enough living through it.  I didn’t realize the full impact of how hard it would be to share and re-live an experience.  Lately, for whatever reason, I’ve not been able to ‘pick up the pen’ at all.


Mom is declining, but in comparison to what or whom?  I look around her Residence and see people far worse off than she is, on so many levels.  Some residents don’t even have visitors.  There isn’t anyone who checks in or follows up.  No one to take a walk or even sit with.  It is hard not to judge, but I don’t because I don’t know their circumstance.  I’ve been on the receiving end of judgment, so I don’t go there anymore.


Easter Sunday with Mom was short.  I brought her to my house where she struggled to settle down, which has been the case for about 9 months now.  It’s only when I suggest she sit by the fire with the dogs and do her crossword puzzle, does she somewhat relax.  She labors more with her crossword puzzles, her handwriting becoming more illegible.  “Hey Mom,” I said from the kitchen, “Shoot me a question!”


“Scottish archipelago,” she says.  We sat in silence for a few seconds.  “NEXT!” I said laughing.


“Distillery containers.” At the same time, we both shouted “Vats!”


“Citizen Cane sled…” “Rosebud?” I replied.  The letters fit.  “Monastic Hood,” Mom sa