Mom told me she needed me to take her to the bank so she could get cash.  She was carrying her checkbook, and had written a check out to “cash.”  I figured the outing was less about the cash than the outing itself.  But I couldn’t resist asking, Why are we doing it this way?  I can just drive by the ATM the next time I’m out.  “Because that’s what I want to do!” she answered, flustered and almost in tears.  So, I took her to the bank.  She staggered to the car in the garage, staggered from the car to the bank building and down the long corridor to the teller.  She presented her check and got her cash, and staggered home in reverse order.  The next time we ran an errand together, I drove by the ATM machine, tapped my card, and took my cash.  “I’m absolutely amazed you know how to do that!” she exclaimed.  I wanted to smile, but couldn’t.  In her dementia, the ATM was some mysterious miraculous machine never before presented to her consciousness.

(Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay)