Mom and dad popped by the house the other day to pick me up and take me to the airport. Nothing unusual. Opened the door, the ‘rents walked in, hugged dad and prepared for my mom’s usual, OVER THE TOP, HUGS AND KISSES… “I luf you! I luf you! You’re my husband! You came out of ME!” But nothing. She said hello and just looked around.
She had no idea where she was or who I was! In fact, she seemed confused.
It was surreal. I wasn’t hurt or angry. I was actually glad she was calm while I gave dad the tour of my house and showed him where the cat food was stashed.
About 20 minutes later as we got into the care she asked me if I was her daughter.
She looked at my dad, “Is that our daughter?”
“Are you our daughter?”
“Mijita! OH MIJITA!! MIJITA MIJITA!”
I’m not especially surprised that she didn’t recognize me. It’s part of the disease. It’s more trippy than anything, and I can’t change how this disease progresses, nor can I take it personally. You know, I think I’m so used to this life, this shattered life—that is the nature of her disease—that nothing really phases me.
Nothing really hurts anymore.