At my 30^th high school reunion, our schmoozing turned toward parental caregiving when a half dozen of us somehow discovered in casual conversation that we had parents in various stages of Alzheimer’s or dementia. We gathered around a table to talk. Mom and I were just a year into her Frontal Lobe Dementia journey. My former teenage friends and I shared stories about our experiences thus far. The anecdotes brought laughter, and perhaps, if we had more time to lower our guards, a few tears. For one classmate, the journey with her father, whom I remember well, was over.   We shared this season of our lives. We had all switched places: we had become the parents to our parents.

Ironically, our Class of ’78 Reunion happened at the downtown Holiday Inn ballroom, which has since become a senior care facility where my mom resided for a year, until she had to leave, never to return, via ambulance for volatility complications—taking one too many swings.

Mom reminds me of Longfellow’s poem, “There was a Little Girl.”

When she was good, she was very, very good.

I recently took her to Taco Bell, and the teenager behind the counter smiled when Mom said, “Hi Sweety. Love you.” The same girl came out to clean the tables as we ate, and again Mom said, “Hi Sweety. Love you.” This young lady may have understood something amiss here, but Mom’s motherliness touched a heartstring, causing the girl to linger around us. When Mom is good, she is very good.

And when she was bad, she was horrid.

Or more like a holy-carp-never-seen-that-kind-of-explosive-in-your-face-volatile-rage.

At our last visit to the YMCA, she sat on an exercise bench as I pumped iron and moved metal. A tattooed, buff don’t-mess-with-me weightlifter came over and asked her if he could use the bench she sat upon.

“No.”

He paused, unsure how to proceed.

“You can leave now,” she said.

The flat tone in her voice surprised him. He hesitated for a second, maybe debating whether to “step up,” but seeing the violence in her stare and death in her eyes, he scurried off to another area of the facility. Good decision. He got away unscathed. When Mom escalates, her sound and fury remains a life event for the uninitiated. I’ve seen mothers, literally, sweep up their children and run, when Mom erupted in a public place.

In 2006, Mom’s condition started to become apparent when she took a swing at the police officer who pulled her over and had the audacity to question her driving skills. After another tumultuous year of living on her own, the time came, for safety reasons, to place her in a memory care residence. And for the safety of others, she had to be removed from two of these facilities due to volatility issues.

Last fall, the resident coordinator at Mom’s present, long-term care facility said her sleep patterns had turned upside down. Mom slept all day and walked the halls at night, which wouldn’t be too bad, except she wandered into the other rooms and woke up more than a few memory care residents, and they had frequent midnight parties with an occasional slap fight.

I discussed the possibility of taking Mom to her morning dentist appointment and keeping her up all day to correct the nightlife. The coordinator agreed to give this strategy a try.

Taking Mom to the dentist is no simple feat. She may grab the tooling. She may push a button or flip a switch out of curiosity. She may refuse to sit in the chair. She may take a swing. She may start talking while the drill is in her mouth. I remain at her side for the protection of all.

This dentist appointment went well; no code blue, red or yellow incidents to report. Caregivers give thanks for docility. We spent the rest of the day working in the yard. As a kid, I never knew the difference between weeds and non-weeds, so I followed in my mother’s footsteps navigating through the huge garden we had in the country house. All has changed.

“Mom, don’t put the rake in the yard bag.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

Repeat this with the shovel, hedge clippers, and various field work equipment. I didn’t solve the disappearance of my new, garden gloves until too late. They lay hidden somewhere in a dozen yard bags, and after considering the cost/benefit analysis, I decided against a search.

We had a good day raking leaves, pulling weeds, and bagging clippings. She has regressed to a limited vocabulary, which the doctors said would happen. Never at a loss for words, she gets frustrated trying to articulate what she wants to say, so I finish her sentences or just go with the flow as she makes up words. We hold conversations that would make no sense to the casual observer, but I run in tandem with her efforts and give responses that assuage her.

“I think so too, Mom…sounds good to me…yes, I like that…you got that right, Mom.”

As this particular fall day unfolded, and we plucked weeds from the flowerbeds, I realized we had passed another milestone. We had crossed another Rubicon. Mom no longer knew my name.

Over the years, in the course of a day spent together, she would periodically forget my identity, which could get a bit awkward when she mistook me for a date. I couldn’t say, “Hi, Mom!” or “Yo, Mom,” fast enough, but my name always returned to her. No more. I’m now a familiar safe haven, an old friend that she can’t quite place, a glimpse of the past that continues to fade into the distance, beyond her memory.

Taking a break from our yard work, we went inside for a Pepsi, her drug of choice for half a century. She smiled and stretched out her arms for a hug.

“Love you, Mom.”

“I love you too …”

“I’m Scott. Your favorite child.”

She laughed, but the memory of my name will no longer reboot.

Last month, on her birthday, I brought over the laptop to enjoy our favorite winter activity. We traveled through the 30s, 40s and 50s on Youtube, dancing with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, singing with Perry Como and Pearl Bailey. We often start with “Good Morning” from Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Conner and see where the road takes us.

As I entered the residency dining room, laptop in hand, Mom had her back turned to me. Curious to see if she could still recognize me, I did not approach, but waited to watch what would happen if she turned around.

She turned; saw me and stretched out both arms, raising her hands toward me with a smile.

At my 30^th reunion, I realized in talking with my high school classmates, how many of us may have to travel this road. Perhaps, writing about Mom and my experiences will help me as we draw closer to the journey’s end, and maybe, lend some encouragement and support to others who will follow in these steps.

Eight summers ago, after she finally received the Frontal Lobe Dementia diagnosis and we began traveling down this path, Mom said on one of our frequent River Greenway bike rides, “Scott, what is happening to me?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“What am I going to do, Scott?”

“I don’t know, Mom. But whatever happens, we’ll go through it together.”