My mom is becoming a novelist

Pen really hasn't been put to paper nor has anything been composed on the computer, yet mom is now fabricating stories of her daily activities.  Sometimes I can't help but wonder if this is far more interesting for her than the boredom and solitude that comes with living in a nursing facility.

Tonight mom called at nearly 9:00 PM with the happiest tone in her voice.  She went on to tell me that she had an interesting day because she decided to visit her friends at the center next door and had lost all sense of time.  Since it was getting late, the friend's center offered her a room for the night. She told me happily of seeing some friends that she hadn't seen in awhile and that it was a very good day. As we were getting off the phone, she believed she was going to be served dinner.  I hinted that it was rather late for dinner and that bedtime was soon approaching, but I dropped this line of conversation because I have finally learned to just go along with the story that is being told.  Arguing or trying to be rational is a futile exercise for us both these days.  This lesson has taken me a very long time to learn!

My teaching experience with little children who often blend fantasy and reality does not serve me well on a night like this.  Most little children can be taught the differences between the two while preserving their imagination.  We reveled in Scott's wild stories of Larry going to work at the Bronx Zoo in a helicoptor, but we also knew he'd outgrow it.  It also went perfectly with his creative personality and his flair for drama. His kindergarten teacher admired it but made it clear to me that we needed to help him discern the differences in order for him to grow properly.  Thankfully, he was successful.

But, mom's fantasy world is something completely different.  It serves her for the moment but it brings me to a dark, unhappy place.  I'm glad that she thinks she had a good day, but I know the truth.  I know that she was bored and unable to remember anything that really happened today.  I know that the person who raised me would be flabbergasted by such tall tales.  I know that she would be mortified if she really knew what is happening. I know that her days of remembering a genuine good time have long since past and "making up stories" ( her phrase from my childhood about fabrications) is just the coping mechanism for a life that she no longer recognizes.