Today, my mother's brother, Mr. A, spoke with her through a video call.
The result was not what I expected.
My mother did not recognize him.
Just two days earlier, she had still been mentioning him by name.
“A-chan this...”
“A-chan that...”
So I thought she would remember him.
Instead, she looked at the screen and said:
“Who is that?
I don't know.”
“This is A from Tokyo.”
“Hmmm?
I don't know.”
“It's your brother.
A-chan.
Your brother.”
At that point, A fell silent.
I can't blame him.
Discovering that your own sister no longer recognizes you is a difficult thing to absorb.
Until now, my mother had mentioned him during almost every visit.
“A-chan's...”
“A-chan did...”
His name kept appearing.
I never imagined the conversation would end this way.
After a long pause, A finally said:
“I don't know what I'm supposed to talk about.”
“She's forgotten many names,” I explained.
“But she can still communicate.
Just try having a normal conversation.”
“......”
I can usually talk with my mother for the entire twenty-minute visiting period.
For people encountering dementia for the first time, however, the situation is much more difficult.
“Have you been eating well?”
“Eating?
What did I do?”
“You ate, right?”
“Did I?”
“......”
Silence.
Before the call, I had given everyone one important instruction.
“Mom becomes frustrated when she realizes she has forgotten something.
Please don't ask, ‘Do you remember?’”
Unfortunately, that advice did not survive very long.
The silence was eventually broken by:
“I'm A's daughter, A-ko.”
“I'm A from O Town in Toyama.”
“Do you remember S-ko Ozawa?”
“She was your mother's...”
The floodgates opened.
Do you remember?
Do you remember?
Do you remember?
Honestly, most people would probably react the same way.
But that was exactly what I had hoped to avoid.
Please stop.
Fortunately, something unexpected happened.
My mother never said:
“I'm no good.”
She never hit her head.
She never became upset.
The frustration she had shown during previous visits seemed to be fading.
Perhaps she is gradually accepting the gaps in her memory.
I don't think memories lost to dementia return.
The brain is not like a hard drive with corrupted files.
It is more like a hard drive that has been physically damaged.
The information isn't inaccessible.
It simply isn't there anymore.
Perhaps I should have prepared everyone more carefully beforehand.
Perhaps I should have said:
“There is a possibility she has forgotten you.”
And:
“She will not suddenly remember.”
Maybe that would have softened the shock.
Then again, very few people remain calm when confronted with that reality for the first time.
After today's experience, I suspect I may be the only one who can still hold a natural conversation with my mother.
After the video call ended, she asked:
“Who was that?”
“That was A-chan.
Your brother.”
“And who are you?”
“I'm your son.
F.”
That exchange explained something.
I think she may have been mistaking me for her brother.
Perhaps that's why she kept mentioning A-chan during our visits.
Later, one of the nurses told me:
“She has even forgotten her own name,” one of the nurses told me.
“When we ask who she is, she says:
‘I'm H.’”
H is my father's name.
I don't think she remembers him especially well.
I think her memories are becoming mixed together.
I have no intention of telling my father that.
He would become far too pleased with himself.
I don't think she remembers him especially well.
I think her memories are becoming mixed together.
The video call was a shock for A.
Seeing his reaction made me reconsider my plans.
I had intended to arrange video calls with other relatives as well.
I think I'll cancel them.
I don't believe conversations with my mother would unfold the way they hope.
What puzzles me is this:
I haven't developed any special technique.
I don't prepare scripts.
I don't consciously follow any strategy.
And yet, I never seem to run out of things to say.
For some reason, talking with my mother still feels natural.
I wonder why.
It's strange.
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