Shhh, don't talk about it

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

That's been their mentality from the start.

Don't talk about Mom's Dementia.

Within the first year of my now 14-year-old son's arrival, she sent the same book twice. When I politely brought it up, she sang out, "Oh! I'm just a doting Grandma! [pregnant pause] But maybe I should make a list of what I send...?"

"No biggie, Mom. It's fine to have two copies of a book," I said.  Because: Books.

Way Out In The Desert(s)

To which she then suggested that since I have two books, perhaps I need to just have a second child. 

Yeah. Because children are like Lay's fuckin' potato chips. Ya might as well have more than one!

Fast forward 11 years to spring 2016, it was after my Breast Cancer Adventure. My first Port Angeles Friend and I took a field trip to see my folks. We went out to dinner, and after my mom excused herself to go to the bathroom, Dad addressed Mom's "problems with her memory."

"I know, Dad," I said. "That's a big reason why I'm here." 

We talked in hushed tones. I mean, we all know that every Mom has the Super Power of being able to listen to the conversation you're having at the table, in a noisy restaurant while she's in the bathroom, and the bathroom is on the other side of the restaurant, you guys. Right?

My dear first Port Angeles Friend was, as always, incredibly kind and offered my Dad her personal experience with her own mother-in-law's dementia diagnosis. The three of us conspired for me to have breakfast with my Mom alone one morning, so that I could express my concerns and offer ways to help. 

I mean, HELLLLLOOOOO? Health Educator since 1997! 

Oh! And as an added bonus: Special needs mom turned breast cancer survivor turned tonsil cancer caregiver, here! 

I wish I was lying.

And my day job is teaching college students how to make informed health choices! #DreamJob #Gratitude 

Dad! I am here to help you guys! This is what I do! Think of it as a return on your investment in my bachelor's degree. For real. I have specialized training, as well as personal experience, and can totally help you and Mom navigate the health care system and --

Here she comes!  

My dad had his eye on the bathroom door and watched my mother walk across the restaurant.

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

The next morning at breakfast, I explained to my mom how I found the lump in my own breast. That I promptly chose to talk with my spouse, and to see my doctor about a problem we could not deny. I stated that from my perspective, as a mom of a child who has neurological disabilities, I felt as though her brain health was beginning to decline. I told her I loved her several times, and I pleaded with her to please ask her own doctor for a referral to a neurologist or neuropsychologist. 

She said she would. 

But she didn't.  

Because shhh...don't talk about it. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you guys.

Yet, from the perspective of the patient with dementia, it's gotta be the the hardest goddam thing to do. Walk into your physician's office and say "I need to be tested for dementia"...? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I imagine that's harder than, "I found a lump." 

But maybe making comparisons between their hard and my hard isn't the way to go with this. Their hard is their hard.   

And my hard is my hard. 

It's not a contest, you guys. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

My monkeys fly...