Dementia's On First

An online friend of Granny Tea's tells this story (I've changed the names) about life at her house (her spouse has dementia). She'd told him a day or so ago about some things they might do. Then she repeated them yesterday because he doesn't usually remember what she's told him, but he said, "You already told me that." She responded, "I wasn't sure you'd remembered."

John – “How am I supposed to know what I will remember or not remember?”
Gail – “Well, how am I supposed to know what you will remember or not remember?
John – “I don’t know, because I don’t remember.”
Gail – “If you don’t know what you’ll remember, I certainly can’t know what you’ll remember.”
John – “It’s confusing.”
Gail- “I give up.”

Granny Tea and I were discussing Blynken's reluctance to go home and I pointed out that at our busy household, where 9 of us are currently living and Shasta and the Equuschick are likely to be here for some chunk of every day, he always has somebody to play with and do things with him and for him. At his second floor apartment, his mother is the only one to cook, clean, do laundry (which is downstairs), take care of his younger brother- and not even the most devoted, single mindedly doting of mothers could duplicate the sheer amount of attention he gets here.

"Yes," said Granny Tea. "I sympathize with single parents. It's a hard job. And I should know, I am one now. Only mine is over six feet tall, and somehow, I think it's much harder."

"Well, for one thing," I agreed, "He's not nearly as cute as Blynken and Nod."