Janelle Taylor

My mother is living with progressive dementia. Because I'm reading these words on the radio, I can't hear your response. But I'm listening for the question that, as I've learned, always comes. Everyone, almost without exception, responds with some version of the same question. Does she recognize you? There are variants, of course. Does she still know who you are? But does she still know your name?

My mother is living with progressive dementia. Because I'm reading these words on the radio, I can't hear your response. But I'm listening for the question that, as I've learned, always comes. Everyone, almost without exception, responds with some version of the same question. Does she recognize you? There are variants, of course. Does she still know who you are? But does she still know your name?

However it may be phrased, the question is always whether my mother recognizes me, meaning can she recite the facts of who I am, what my name is, and how I'm related to her. When everyone keeps asking me, does she recognize you? I find myself thinking that is the wrong question. I believe the question really is, or should be, do you, do we, recognize her as a person who's still here?

However it may be phrased, the question is always whether my mother recognizes me, meaning can she recite the facts of who I am, what my name is, and how I'm related to her. When everyone keeps asking me, does she recognize you? I find myself thinking that is the wrong question. I believe the question really is, or should be, do you, do we, recognize her as a person who's still here?

Does she recognize you? The weirdness of the question becomes more obvious if you think about what would be required to answer it. Let's say I ask my mother, what's my name? Who am I? How old am I? How do we know each other? testing her that way. What does it prove? What does it actually accomplish? I read a book by a journalist named Lauren Kessler.

Does she recognize you? The weirdness of the question becomes more obvious if you think about what would be required to answer it. Let's say I ask my mother, what's my name? Who am I? How old am I? How do we know each other? testing her that way. What does it prove? What does it actually accomplish? I read a book by a journalist named Lauren Kessler.

She wrote about how she would correct her own mother when her mother called her by the wrong name. Every time she would visit her mother, she'd take framed photos from the dresser and point to them and quiz her mother. You know who this is, don't you, Mom? Of course she didn't. Kessler writes, So I told her again and again, each visit, who was who, and then quizzed again.

She wrote about how she would correct her own mother when her mother called her by the wrong name. Every time she would visit her mother, she'd take framed photos from the dresser and point to them and quiz her mother. You know who this is, don't you, Mom? Of course she didn't. Kessler writes, So I told her again and again, each visit, who was who, and then quizzed again.

Thinking back on this now, I am appalled at my insensitivity. What did I think I was doing? I managed to accomplish only two things. I made myself miserable and I made my mother irritable. I don't need my mother to tell me my name or how I'm related to her. I already know these things, and I know that she has dementia.

Thinking back on this now, I am appalled at my insensitivity. What did I think I was doing? I managed to accomplish only two things. I made myself miserable and I made my mother irritable. I don't need my mother to tell me my name or how I'm related to her. I already know these things, and I know that she has dementia.

So why then would I make a point of asking her these questions that I know she can't possibly answer? It seems rude or just mean. I can't bring myself to do it. I guess you could say that my mother raised me better than that. Does she recognize you? I'm not so convinced that the inability to remember names necessarily means that a person with dementia can't recognize or care about other people.

So why then would I make a point of asking her these questions that I know she can't possibly answer? It seems rude or just mean. I can't bring myself to do it. I guess you could say that my mother raised me better than that. Does she recognize you? I'm not so convinced that the inability to remember names necessarily means that a person with dementia can't recognize or care about other people.

But very often, it does mean that other people stop recognizing and caring about them. My mother was close to lots of people, but only one friend remains present in her life. Every month or two, Eli Davis drives an hour and a half from her home to Seattle to visit mom, bringing treats and hugs and her always cheerful self. I love her dearly for it. And I wonder, where are the others?

But very often, it does mean that other people stop recognizing and caring about them. My mother was close to lots of people, but only one friend remains present in her life. Every month or two, Eli Davis drives an hour and a half from her home to Seattle to visit mom, bringing treats and hugs and her always cheerful self. I love her dearly for it. And I wonder, where are the others?

Where are the couples with whom my parents socialized? The women with whom mom spent hours and hours on the phone all through my childhood? This shouldn't surprise me as much as it has. Maybe it's not fair to expect friends to step up, even close family drop off. Friendships in America are not usually expected to survive dementia.

Where are the couples with whom my parents socialized? The women with whom mom spent hours and hours on the phone all through my childhood? This shouldn't surprise me as much as it has. Maybe it's not fair to expect friends to step up, even close family drop off. Friendships in America are not usually expected to survive dementia.

Friendships are often more like pleasure crafts than life rafts, not built to brave the really rough waters. Does she recognize you? When people ask me whether my mother still recognizes me, they're often expressing concern for me, asking me how I'm bearing up under the burden of suffering that her dementia must place on me. And they're quite ready to hear about my burdens and my suffering.

Friendships are often more like pleasure crafts than life rafts, not built to brave the really rough waters. Does she recognize you? When people ask me whether my mother still recognizes me, they're often expressing concern for me, asking me how I'm bearing up under the burden of suffering that her dementia must place on me. And they're quite ready to hear about my burdens and my suffering.

What they find harder to hear, I think, is that being around my mother is not a nightmare or a horror. It's not like any of that. Here's what it is. In a cafe, as we share a scone, mom and I make what passes for conversation. I've learned to ask only the sort of question that doesn't require any specific information to answer. So, things going okay with you these days? How's my favorite mom doing?

What they find harder to hear, I think, is that being around my mother is not a nightmare or a horror. It's not like any of that. Here's what it is. In a cafe, as we share a scone, mom and I make what passes for conversation. I've learned to ask only the sort of question that doesn't require any specific information to answer. So, things going okay with you these days? How's my favorite mom doing?