The Beat Goes On

The same conversation is part of my day, almost every day.
Mom: What is this place I'm in?
Me: It's a nursing facility.
Mom: Why am I in a place like this?
Me: We were following the doctor's suggestion that you need a safe place since you weren't safe at home any more.
Mom: I think that's blown out of proportion-- I was doing fine at home. So what's the story, I need to stay here forever?
Me: We don't know that--for now it's serving the purpose of you having people who take good care of you and make sure that your meals are cooked and that you're safe.  You know that's the most important thing for us to know.
Mom:  I'm very lonely here-- I don't know anyone.  I just got here.
Me:  Frank, your brother is on the same floor--he's right down the hall.
Mom:   Really?  How do I find him?
Me:  Turn left out of your room and then go to the end of the hallway.
Mom:  I haven't seen him here before.
Me:  I think you have-- you probably ate dinner with him last night.
Mom:  I really don't remember that.
Me:  Mom, we love you and want you to be safe--this isn't easy for any of us, but you know that you had to do the same thing for your father, and we all just have to do what we know will make someone safe.
Mom:  Yeah, I know, but I don't have to like it.

We sometimes go this route 2 or 3 times within a conversation, or in a morning.
I am blown away by the fact that life must be so frightening for her and others with dementia.  She truly thinks that she's awakening in a different, unfamiliar place each day with no recollection of arriving there. It is the most painful to hear her sounding so afraid and tentative.  This is not the person who was so self-assured and sometimes fearless.

The beat goes on, but it's a song without a happy ending.