February 7, 1997 -- a slow day, music, the Von Trapps, the treasure of normality

Today I decided to visit Mom in the middle of the day for a change -- usually I go by in the late afternoon and hang out with her while she is eating.

I had hoped she might be more alert than in the evenings, but if anything she was less so. She seemed only a blink away from a deep sleep for the two hours that I was with her. I greeted her without any apparent recognition on her part. For a change of scene I wheeled her downstairs to the main floor at Sunrise.

I sat in the front hall with Mom for a few minutes and talked to Jackie about entertainments for the residents on the third floor. She had just bought some tapes of big band music and we discussed what kinds of music and films are most likely to be a success with those suffering deep dementia. The said that Benny Goodman and the like tend to work best in the middle of the day, whereas in the evenings they can cause agitation for some residents. I joked about the kinds of music people would be buying for us in 20 or 30 years in our residents homes. Would we be demanding more of "our" Elvis tapes!

Mom and I went to her room and Jackie brought in her food -- a great looking soup, a chopped egg sandwich, chips, juice. I would have been pleased to have been served it in a restaurant. But Mom was very slow, seeming unaware of the soup in front of her (I only put one part of the meal at a time on her tray) even when I fed her a bite or two. I asked if she would like to see some more of "The Sound of Music," our current film. Usually in the super-slow times, I can at least get an "OK" or "Yes, indeed" out of her at film time. But this time there was no response.

We started the film just as Maria had returned to the Von Trapp household, having been driven away by the scheeming baroness. She is heartbroken to learn that he is planning to marry the baroness, but then they break the engagement, and in an exquisite scene in the garden Maria and Captain Von Trapp declare their love for one another. I remembered that some 40 years ago Mom told me that she thought that every romance turns on a simple plot line: "Boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back."

That was long ago. Today I could not tell whether Mom was reacting to the film. (Actually a few days ago we had watched the part where the abbess tells Maria to go back to Von Trapp and sings, "Climb Every Mountain." That did catch Mom's attention -- "It's wonderful" she said of the song.) But today the food, the film, and the son barely seemed to penetrate her consciousness.

I usually try to envelop Mom in a world of action as if all were well -- "Let's go downstairs; let me tell you what I've been doing; let's watch this or that film." But I sometimes think I overlook to "treat her like an adult" and talk about where she is. So I tried that.

"Mom," I said, "I just want to go over a few things. I'm your son, Bill, and I live about four miles away over there (pointing out the window) in Bellevue, and you're on Mercer Island. You have a disease called Parkinson's, and you have trouble saying things and remembering things. But you have people to care for you here and you have your family, and we all love you."

That brought a nod from her, as if to say, "I'm not sure what you're telling me, but I appreciate your efforts."

Oh well. It was a slow day -- no real "tug at the other end of the line." And I am feeling blue now.

On the way over, I stopped at the video store and something in the air reminded me of Spring days in Santa Cruz, visiting Mom ten or fifteen years ago. The reminder was of a place and of a person wrapped around the place -- the grocery store where Mom shopped, the restaurants that we went to together, the friends and her sister (Aunt Emory) who were part of her world.

Of course, I took that all for granted then, but, oh, what I wouldn't give for just a few hours now and then of those times when she was whole.