Reminding My Mom Who I Am

I approached my mom in the dining hall of her nursing home and asked her if she knew who I was. She said: You’re my older sister. I asked her if she knew my name, and prompted her one word at a time. I showed her a photo of us when I was around six, pointed to myself and asked: Who’s this? She replied: You’re saying this is you. Perhaps we need to cycle through more of these old photos next time I see her.

On our way to lunch, she reached down to fasten her shoe strap and couldn’t get up again. She had to sit down on the ground and rest for a while. I wondered if she needs more practice getting up from a squatting position–something to mention to her physical therapist, or physiotherapist in Brit speak.

We went to a coffee shop where she had spaghetti bolognese. I asked her what she thought of the dish. She said it wasn’t nutritious. I asked if she meant it didn’t have enough meat. She nodded. She’s always had a preference for a high protein to carb ratio. After lunch, I bought her some salami. She saw a bag of prunes in her drawer and grabbed them, so I gave her a few. In the next day or so, I heard she had diarrhea. No more prunes and salami for now.

There was a rubrik’s cube at the cafe, which I tried to encourage her to play with. She wasn’t interested. My name was the puzzle of the day. I’ll be moving soon, cutting my travel time to her nursing home in half. She could use more attention for sure.