Janelle Taylor

You doing all right? I tell her funny little stories about my kids. Sometimes we leaf through a magazine, looking at the pictures and commenting on them. Sometimes we look out the window and I make general observations that require no specific response. Looks like spring is coming. Look at those leaves coming out on the trees. That guy's hair is really curly.

You doing all right? I tell her funny little stories about my kids. Sometimes we leaf through a magazine, looking at the pictures and commenting on them. Sometimes we look out the window and I make general observations that require no specific response. Looks like spring is coming. Look at those leaves coming out on the trees. That guy's hair is really curly.

With each exchange, Mom smiles at me, beaming affectionately in that familiar, slightly conspiratorial way, as if we're both in on the same joke. So, our conversations go nowhere. But it doesn't matter what we say, really, or whether we said it before, or whether it's accurate or interesting or even comprehensible. The exchange is the point.

With each exchange, Mom smiles at me, beaming affectionately in that familiar, slightly conspiratorial way, as if we're both in on the same joke. So, our conversations go nowhere. But it doesn't matter what we say, really, or whether we said it before, or whether it's accurate or interesting or even comprehensible. The exchange is the point.

Mom and I are playing catch with touches, smiles, and gestures, as well as words, lobbing them back and forth to each other in slow, easy underhand arcs. The fact that she drops the ball more and more often doesn't stop the game from being enjoyable. It's a way of being together. Does she recognize you?

Mom and I are playing catch with touches, smiles, and gestures, as well as words, lobbing them back and forth to each other in slow, easy underhand arcs. The fact that she drops the ball more and more often doesn't stop the game from being enjoyable. It's a way of being together. Does she recognize you?

She may not recognize me in a narrowly cognitive sense, but my mom does recognize me as someone who's there with her, someone familiar perhaps. And she doesn't need to have all the details sorted out in order to care for me. The impulse to care, the habit of caring, these are things that run deep in my mother.

She may not recognize me in a narrowly cognitive sense, but my mom does recognize me as someone who's there with her, someone familiar perhaps. And she doesn't need to have all the details sorted out in order to care for me. The impulse to care, the habit of caring, these are things that run deep in my mother.

Someone who, for most of her life, was very engaged in caring for other people, her children, her husband, her grandchildren, her friends. Even some of the behavioral quirks that my mom has developed make sense to me in those terms as expressions of care. Here's an example. People with dementia often engage in repetitive behaviors, and mom is no exception.

Someone who, for most of her life, was very engaged in caring for other people, her children, her husband, her grandchildren, her friends. Even some of the behavioral quirks that my mom has developed make sense to me in those terms as expressions of care. Here's an example. People with dementia often engage in repetitive behaviors, and mom is no exception.

When I take her out to a cafe, I usually get a cup of black coffee for myself and order a cup of hot chocolate for her. Not too hot, and don't forget the whipped cream on top. As we drink them, she checks constantly to see whether my cup and hers are even, whether the liquids have been drunk down to the same level.

When I take her out to a cafe, I usually get a cup of black coffee for myself and order a cup of hot chocolate for her. Not too hot, and don't forget the whipped cream on top. As we drink them, she checks constantly to see whether my cup and hers are even, whether the liquids have been drunk down to the same level.

And if not, she'll hurry up and drink more to catch up or else stop and wait for me. Or if we share a cookie, she's concerned to make sure that the halves be the same size and that we eat them at the same rate.

And if not, she'll hurry up and drink more to catch up or else stop and wait for me. Or if we share a cookie, she's concerned to make sure that the halves be the same size and that we eat them at the same rate.

I think keeping track of whether our drinks and cookies are even comes naturally to my mother, a woman who has always had to carefully divide quite limited resources, first with her own brothers and later among her four children. She's cared about such details all her life, and caring about them was also a way in which she cared for other people.

I think keeping track of whether our drinks and cookies are even comes naturally to my mother, a woman who has always had to carefully divide quite limited resources, first with her own brothers and later among her four children. She's cared about such details all her life, and caring about them was also a way in which she cared for other people.

Mom also does still take care of me in some small but important ways. One time, a little more than a year ago, I stopped by the assisted living facility where she was living at the end of a very busy day and an especially hectic week. I had stayed up very late the night before trying to finish grading student papers, then spent the whole day teaching and in meetings.

Mom also does still take care of me in some small but important ways. One time, a little more than a year ago, I stopped by the assisted living facility where she was living at the end of a very busy day and an especially hectic week. I had stayed up very late the night before trying to finish grading student papers, then spent the whole day teaching and in meetings.

I went with her up to her room, I turned on the TV, and we sat down together on the couch. I was exhausted. I leaned back and yawned. Mom patted my hand and said to me, you're tired. Just go ahead and sleep. You can just lay down right here. And so I sat there next to my mom, holding her hand, feeling her warmth against me all along one side of my body.

I went with her up to her room, I turned on the TV, and we sat down together on the couch. I was exhausted. I leaned back and yawned. Mom patted my hand and said to me, you're tired. Just go ahead and sleep. You can just lay down right here. And so I sat there next to my mom, holding her hand, feeling her warmth against me all along one side of my body.