She woke up thinking she was in Indiana. I said, "Well, that's tough to explain, because I'm in Portland and I'm sitting next to you." She laughed, unconvinced, looking for her cousin so they could get ready for a funeral. She didn't remember whose funeral.
It turned into an all day memory fest. Alsea found a notebook she had been recording the details of her life in, and found that her home had been sold and all of her belongings. She had known this at one time, of course, but with dementia, every day is a new day, with new possibilities for reliving pain and grief. It lasted all day. Alsea coming by my desk, asking about Indiana, and letting me know she'd recently lost her mind. Only just recently.
Then, she said, "I remember how it felt to jump off into the swimming pool. I wasn't young when I learned how to swim and I remember just how it felt to land in the water. I wish I could feel that again. It felt so good."
I'd have given just about anything for a pool about then.
2 comments:
this is painfully lovely.
Thanks. Hello Jen. Thanks for visiting.
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