Mom's been doing great the last few months. Sure, we have some bad days (Dementia Revenge), but since getting her on Zoloft, she's been pretty upbeat; our extended stays in Downer Town have been non-existent. Still, The Other Girl and I have both noted the progression of decline recently. It's funny things - she understands much less of what I say to her now. Like "Get in the van, Mom" results in a perplexed look from her as she stands next to the open door, then she shuts the van door without getting in at all and looks at me as if to say "Is that what you meant?" (Oddly enough, her attempts to get into other people's cars in parking lots has increased substantially. Maybe she just doesn't

A dish best served crazy. In the past, when Mom was trying to make us feel like horrid daughters (a tradition in our household, 'cause, you know, anybody can be an affectionate mom, but to seamlessly interweave it with shame and guilt is to achieve parenting mastery), she'd skip the traditional "I was in labor with you for 142 hours!" routine and instead give us her favorite story of reproach which begins with my father being on a week-long business trip. Finding herself a single-mom for a rainy winter week, she was tired of being housebound and decided to do something fun for her two daughters, age seven and three. So she gassed up the Thunderbird and drove an hour and a half up to Timberli

We had been drinking. A lot. The Other Girl and myself had been sitting out on the back porch, draining bottles of wine, chain smoking, and talking non-stop since Mom had gone to bed hours earlier. The Boyfriend in the Basement would occasionally step out the sliding glass door to partake in the weekly recap of funny stories about Mom, or the rehash of the week's events outside of life with Mom (my sister's domain - I barely have a life outside of Mom). Big, lumbering Sadie lolled about our feet with the occasional walk to the grass to pee, or stroll through the side yard investigating the bushes. We were having a good night, letting frustration and stress ooze out with each ridiculous anecd

Laughter is the best medicine even when there is no cure. Aha! Finally the tides have turned! While Mom's range of pranks are getting more limited, ours are increasing. Here's my favorite trick to start Mom's day with a smile. And a benefit of dementia? She'll fall for it day, after day, after day... #dementiahumor #june2018

It truly does Take A Village to keep Mom engaged and lively while living with vascular dementia. Luckily, we've got one! I haven't had an opportunity to write the last few weeks; my free time lately has been after Mom goes to bed, and by then I'm too mentally worn down to construct a proper sentence, or even an improper one (which is more my skill set). Visual storytelling, however, is a bit easier when you're pooped! I went through a bunch of random videos I'd collected over this last year and realized they told a story about... ...how much crazy life and crazy shit goes on with dementia; Mom, myself, and The Other Girl are blessed to have an amazing collection of relatives and friends who

Yes, literally stealing. I often see comments on forums, Facebook, and other such online caregiver gatherings along the lines of "Dementia/Alzheimer's is stealing my (insert loved one's name) from me!" I don't much cotton to that line of thought. I mean, our loved ones are going to die from something, so I think Death is actually doing the stealing as opposed to any one disease. And as Death is inevitable, is it really stealing? Or just Death giving some people a considerate heads up... "Time to get ready to go and FYI, your dementia journey is gonna last a little bit longer than others who get hit by a bus. On the upside, more time to hug and love your family, plan your exit strategy, and w