Chapter 8 - My Mother Was Never Developing Dementia
The neurological workup came back slowly.
Imaging.
Cognitive testing.
Medication review.
Bloodwork.
The conclusion was remarkably ordinary.
Mom was aging.
Physically frail.
Recovering from dehydration.
But she did not show evidence of the progressive cognitive disease Celeste had been quietly preparing me to expect.
Once the unapproved sedating medication cleared her system, the “confusion” disappeared.
Within days she was solving the crossword puzzle faster than I could.
She remembered every medication change.
Every strange drink.
Every conversation Celeste later claimed never happened.
The hospital geriatrician told me:
“Your mother wasn’t failing a memory test. She was being repeatedly impaired.”
That sentence nearly broke me.
I had begun researching memory-care facilities.
Not because Mom needed one.
Because Celeste had taught me to interpret sabotage as decline.
I told Mom.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then said:
“You were scared.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
Again, she didn’t rescue me from responsibility.
I was grateful for that.
“I should’ve believed you.”
“You should have investigated.”
That distinction mattered.
Blindly believing family is not always wise.
But neither is automatically trusting the person with credentials over the person describing what is happening to her own body.
I did not need to choose sides faster.
May you like
I needed to ask better questions.
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