questioning

I think Mom's pain and mood medications are in a better balance.  She is walking about more easily and rising from a chair with much less agony. That is a good thing. She is a bit more cooperative with her aides, she's not as aggressive or nasty. That is a good thing too.

We look at her photos, over and over, and as we do Mom has been asking questions. Usually difficult to understand questions, but she asks them over and over, adding and removing words each time. 

Why don't I teach school anymore?
Why aren't I at school?
Were you angry/jealous that I taught school?
Where is my husband?
Where is my Mommy?
Where is my Daddy?
Why are you here?
Why am I here?
Where is my boyfriend?
Were you angry/jealous that you didn't come on this trip?
Were you angry/jealous that you weren't at this party/event?

I find it very interesting, that this is one of the few times, since dementia has crept into our lives, that she is asking about my emotions, about me.

We are looking at pictures from her trip, with Dad, to Europe. Something they did in their retirement years, at a time when I was grown and gone from the nest.  We are looking at photos of beautiful churches and castles. Why does she ask me if I was angry that I didn't get to go? Where is this kind of question coming from?

We are looking at pictures of all her girlfriends at their monthly birthday luncheons.  Her "dear friends" who still come and visit, even though she no longer recognizes most of them.  Why does she ask me if I am jealous that I wasn't at that party?  What does she really need to know?

I was always so happy that my parents got to travel in their retirement years. I was always so glad that they got connected into a group of nice folks in their retirement.  "Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other's gold."

She has also been asking about her Mother and Father. With big teary eyes, she'll ask me "Where's my Mommy?"  She knows something is wrong, but she can't recall. Her face contorts, her whole body shakes with grief. I can't divert her to another thought, to a happy place. "Tell me, tell me!"
"A long time ago, your Mommy got very, very sick, and then she had to die."
"Don't lie to me!" she yells. "Tell me the truth."
"She died a long time ago, when you were a girl, and it was very sad. We all miss her very much."
We go through this line of questioning over and over
"Where is my Mommy? Where is my Daddy? Where is my Husband?"
I can't fiblet my way out of these questions. She remembers enough, but not enough. She is full of raw fresh grief, up to the top, spilling out her eyes, no fiblet is going to sooth that.