The Colors of My Mother’s World

My mother is stuck in a loop. When I called the Memory Care facility to wish her happy Mother’s Day, they told me she’s eating the snacks I had sent to her and that she had not taken off the hat I sent since she received it several days ago. She recognizes my name when they say I’m on the phone, but I’m not sure she remembers that I am her daughter. She’s taken a real dip cognitively over the last several months. She didn’t react when I told her it was Mother’s Day. When I said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” I added a “Yippee!” She said “Yippee” back to me but she was simply repeating what I had said. This is one of the ways she still tries to connect. My mother used to be an interior designer and an artist. She talked to me today about a man who will be coming to “do the work.” She said she had chosen a dark absinthe color for the walls. She told me she hadn’t let them paint the wood trim. She was looking forward to seeing how it all came out. Of course none of this is real, at least not for the rest of us, but my mother lives in this tiny world her mind has created. It’s one design job after another. She gets to use her skills. People respect her there. It doesn’t matter that the job and the people don’t actually exist. They do in my mother’s mind. My daughter-in-law asked me today how I was doing with all of this. (Aren’t I lucky?) I told her that I was grateful that my mother wasn’t scared or angry or paranoid or mean or depressed. I told her that the hardest part for me is not knowing what to expect when I call her. I know my mother quite well. Dementia eventually turned her into a kinder, gentler mother, but her likes and her dislikes are still the same. So I smiled with satisfaction that the hat was a hit, and I talked with her for the seven minutes she could handle being on the phone. We talked about color, something that has always created a bridge for us. I said, “I love you,” when I said good-bye. She no longer says it back. She no longer mentions my son or my father. It’s just her and her colors trying to manage her tiny, little piece of self-created reality. I find myself oddly grateful that the colors remain.

Cinse Bonino
2024