When I get home from work, and if the weather is nice, we walk.
My mom looks forward to it, and I do too, mostly, because it tends to bring some sanity to her sundowning, for both of us, I think.
One day last week I arrived home a few mins later than usual, and I was a little surprised because she was standing at the door fully dressed and waiting on me.
She looks at me and asks, “are you ready?” Yes, I am, I-am-ready. She smiles and says, “ok. Let’s rage”.
(people with dementia often mix up words) The instant she said “rage” a poem came to mind, and I chuckled saying, ”yes, mama, let’s do this, let’s rage.”
Hey mom, I was thinking about a poem, would you like to hear it?
It goes, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Mom: umm, no, I don’t think I do. I’d much rather have ice cream.
Me: oh, ok.
And as it turns out, I don’t think she misspoke at all. My mom has many good qualities, gentle isn’t one of them, and that’s OK, I guess.
Also, from now on, when we walk, we rage.