I most often arrived at my mom’s nursing home late at night,  traveling by highway the four to five hours it took to get to her place once I got off work.   I call it a nursing home but it was technically an assisted care facility that had the outward appearance of a sprawling condo complex.   My mom lived alone in a one bedroom surrounded by whatever artifacts of her past life my sister and I felt would give her the most joy.   Gone were the dinner sets,  sofas,  dining table,  my sisters and mines childhood clothes she had lovingly saved,  antique clocks,  houseplants she had tended for decades,  mementos,  drawers full of greeting cards she had received from friends over the years,  cook books and everything else she and my dad had collected over long lives that filled their suburban home.   Her new place now had a small Ikea loveseat that she spent most of her days and nights on,  the omnipresent TV glowing 24 hours, a hutch filled with family photos and some keepsakes,  an extra chair,  and a small bed she never like to sleep on.  

I was always an attentive son,  it was difficult at first to ignore my mom but I eventually got use to it.  I learned to lie.  

Mom was always glad to see me arrive.  She had dementia so the phone call to let her know I was on my way was some common courtesy relic from my past life with a more present mother.   And as the doctor predicted her memory got worse with the passing of time.   I was lucky because she always knew who I was and had great recall for long past events.   It was the short term memory that was failing.   She had no idea what she ate at the dining hall,  no idea what activities she had participated in that day.   No idea what she had just told me.   

I stayed the night in the bed and in the morning we hopped in my car for the long drive back to my place.   I loved having her with me for extended visits and tried to bring her to my house as often as I could.   In the car she would ask me if we were going back to her and dads old home,  I’d reply “no, we’re heading to my place for a few days”.  “Well I’d rather go back home if you don’t mind” she would say.  Mom got upset easily these days,  her confusion and anger at her new situation always percolating beneath the surface,  best to ignore her pleas.   Or I learned to outright lie and say anything to appease her rather than try and reason which never worked and eventually led to an argument.   She could be quite volatile which made the already tedious travel through monotonous farm land even worse.  She was lonely,  confused,  I felt guilty and wanted her to be happy.

One surprising development with her dementia was a desire to share parts of her life she had previously kept private.   It was as if whatever cultural boundaries we set up were no longer relevant to her.    The fears of being judged negatively by society and ones peers,  the shames we acquire beginning in childhood,  the multitude of reasons we keep secrets,  it  all vanished.    Her conversational skills were limited,  she would talk about something only for a short while before some distraction changed the subject.  She often repeated the story.   On these drives I learned all kinds of new things about her and dads relationship,  her life as a child in Oklahoma,  other men she had dated before dad,  and so on.  

On this particular trip she told me about having been sexually molested as a child,  something she had never told me but I knew of through my sister.   The two of them always had a more intimate relationship.   

She started out’ “Warner,  did I ever tell you about the time I was molested by my uncle as a young girl?”   The black and white cows in the field wizzed by.   “No mom,  you never did”.   She told me in great detail what happened, more graphic and honest than I cared to know.  All polite conversational boundaries had dissolved.   My fellow travelers in their myriad vehicles slowed down, red break lights signaling.   There must be an accident up ahead.  I listened to my mom tell her story careful not to rear end the slow moving car in front.   She told it in a very matter of fact way,  no emotion in her voice,  just something she felt like sharing.  The traffic stops,  we sit unmoving,  the fields burning green in every direction,  the citrus orchards looking shady and inviting.     She finishes her tale,  I tell her I’m very sorry,  we sit quietly for a few moments staring at the cars in front of us.   Traffic begins to crawl forward.  A minute passes,  “Warner,  did I ever tell you about the time I was molested by my uncle as a child?”  she says again,  clueless to having just told me the same painful-to-hear story.  I politely say “no mom you haven’t”.   I had long learned that one of the meanest things you can do to a person with memory loss is to snap at them saying “you already told me that!”.   They have no idea they’re repeating themselves and all they hear is the anger and frustration in your voice.   It’s very confusing and disturbing for them to get responses like that.   You really have to learn to put your ego aside and practice grace.   

The traffic is directed into a single lane.   She retells the story.   A second time,  then a third,  then a fourth.  The gas station with its sugary doughnuts at the upcoming exit suddenly looks appealing.   I find anger welling up in me,  anger at the slow traffic,  anger at the sun cooking me through the window,  anger at life and anger at my mom telling me the same terribly tragic story for the fifth time.   I keep my cool when all I really want to do is roll the window down and scream,  scream at the idiotic driver in front of me,  scream  at the ugly suburban housing going on in all directions,  scream because the sun coming through the window is baking my body,  scream at my mom to just shut up,  scream at the sadness of life.  I keep my cool.   The outlet mall fades in the rearview mirror and traffic picks up.   I employ a conversational trick I’ve learned to cope with mom.   If I can change the subject long enough  she forgets what she was originally talking about.  Something fun and cheery.   It doesn’t always work, especially if she’s angry.  “Hey mom,  do you remember that time when we were kids and …”.  She lights up.   Mercifully for me this time it worked,  either that or she had rid herself of whatever demon she felt she had to get out.   I calm down, feeling guilty for being human.   The traffic is back at its normal speed,  the end of the long drive in sight.  

 Let’s pull off and take a break anyways.  We sit on the shaded bench at the gas station aside the freeway,  cars speeding by and fellow travelers coming and going.  The sparrows are hopping about our feet looking for free food.    I find that place in me where I’m happy to be together and grateful to hear her stories.  Mom offers the birds little bites.    In that moment I find the cheap, wrapped in plastic doughnuts taste really good.