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)

Mom checks her email first thing, last thing, and several times throughout the day. Several years ago, I placed a short-cut icon in her task bar, and explained, All you have to do, Mom, is click this one button—nothing else, and your email will come up.  She recently called to me from her office for help with her computer.  “I can’t get my email up!” she exclaimed in exasperation, staring helplessly at the computer home screen.  I looked at her screen, saw that no apps were open, and asked her if she had clicked the email icon I had made for her.  “I don’t remember how to do it,” she whispered in dismay, sensing that she ought to remember, but couldn’t.  I reminded her about the email icon.  She clicked it once, and up popped her email.  “I just couldn’t remember how to do it!” she cried with relief.  Gladly, she hasn’t had any trouble since.

(Image by Raphael Silva from Pixabay)