Tonight as I sat down to supper, I received a distressing call from my mother. It went something like this (but in Japanese):
Me: Hello?
Mom: Hello, Hisako? This is Tomoko. (odd start, because she usually calls herself Mama when she speaks to me)
Me: Hi, mama (I started this way deliberately to orient her. Reminiscent of when my dad suffered dementia and started flirting with me in the hospital, thinking I was a cute nurse. I had to yell "Papa!" to shake him out of it. But that's an entirely other story...)
Mom: Ah, Hisako. They put me back in the hospital.
Me (confused): What do you mean? Back from where?
Mom: I left the hospital, but they brought me back.
Me: Mama, you never left the hospital.
Mom: What!? (utter disbelief)
Me: Mama, you've been there for a month. You haven't left, but you'll be able to leave soon.
Mom: I need to see you. Can you come see me? (flustered, confused)
Me: Yes, of course, mama. I'm on my way shortly.
Mom: Thank you.
I arrived within the hour, and asked my mom if she remembered calling me. Yes, she had. "But, didn't I leave the hospital at least once?" No, mama, you've been safely in the hospital for a month, recovering. Head shaking, disbelief. "It must have been a dream, then." Where did you go when you left the hospital in your dream? "To my apartment." Who took you? "You did, Hisako." After calmly explaining that it was a dream (because at this point I was 100% sure the entire incident was in her imagination and not a result of her wandering off the site, for example), I managed to turn the topic of conversation around. I had arranged a video call for her from her older sister in Japan. The sisters chatted for about half an hour, with a lot of repetition, some gentle conversation and laughs.
In a better mood and seeming more lucid, I decided to unpack the surprise I brought for my mother tonight: Ribbon, wire, and floral tape. My mother doesn't remember a conversation from minutes ago. She loses the sequence of events from the past. Yet, she spent decades as a florist (fresh flowers) and floral designer (ribbon flowers). She ran a shop, taught ikebana and floral design classes, even had a stall at Ottawa's Byward Market for several years. She was truly gifted and talented, and created thoughtful and beautiful arrangements over the years. I handed her a long ribbon, and this is what she proceeded to do. She even managed to complain that I brought the wrong thickness of ribbon to her:
Here is a photo of 3 ribbon roses she folded in a matter of minutes. (Back in the day, it would literally take her seconds to fold, then add stem and leaves using wire and floral tape.) Isn't she talented?
I left her enough cut ribbon to make 4 more roses with wire and floral tape, and told her perhaps she could offer them to the nurses and PABs who visit her. She cheekily replied: "They'll love them so much, they'll tell everyone, and everybody will want one of my roses. I don't have enough energy to make that many!" Mama, I only left you a little bit of ribbon. Don't tire yourself out. I'll be back tomorrow with another colour, and hopefully the right thickness this time.
Dementia stole some memories, but not her talent. We shared a beautiful moment tonight.
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