During The Long Goodbye with Mama, I learned much about how to be with her, communicate with her, as she slowly lost everything except her sweetness.

If you have a loved one with dementia and you’re just starting out, here’s the most important thing: Obey the first rule of Improv. Say “Yes, and… ” to whatever her reality is at any given moment. (You don’t have to say those exact words, but that idea needs to be the basis of your response – don’t deny; agree.)

If Mama said she went shopping today with her sister or was staying all night at Mama and Daddy’s (all long deceased), I would ask her if she had fun, what she and her sister bought, or ask her to tell Grandmama and Granddaddy hello for me next time, say how I enjoy being at their house too.

She spoke in the present tense about others who have gone on as well. A positive of dementia for her seemed to be that nobody had ever died; in her reality, they were still alive. So my responses agreed. Why would I take that away from her?

The older memories were more dependable. When she talked about being with her sister or parents, she was very likely remembering real experiences with them from her past.

The newer memories could not hold on as long. She knew Evan from the time he was born. She knew he was her great-grandson and greeted him by name when we visited her at her house. But this connection slipped away from her gradually and she needed to be reminded who he was. Eventually, every visit called for an introduction to him, and later to Callie. She was always very happy to meet them and loved them naturally and immediately every time. And sometimes they would spark a connection with something older that she did still remember.

During one visit, she observed intently for a while as Callie played and initiated interactions with her big brother and others in the room. Then she said sweetly and thoughtfully, “She just wants to be included . . . (turning to look lovingly at me) just like you.“

It was indescribably sweet to me to see her remembering that, to know that her memory of little me was still firmly in place, that she knew who I was still, and that from the beginning she had noticed and knew how it was for me. I’m pretty sure she knew what I was feeling before I did.

What I was feeling was what I now call onlyness – like loneliness, but more specific and constant. I was the only girl, yes, but it was – is – more than that. I have felt it all my life and grown accustomed to it now. Describing it well would be a whole other article and not what this is about.

What this is about is appreciating that Mama knew. She saw me. I miss her so much.