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In the early stages of my mother's dementia, my father attempted to shield her condition, masking her symptoms beneath a veneer of normalcy. But as her condition progressed, the façade shattered. Reluctantly, he made the difficult decision to relocate her to this nursing home, where she has resided ever since.
As I move toward the entrance of the home, a weight settles in my chest. Anxiety grips me like a vice, and I wish Greer were here to help me through this impending panic attack. I can do this.
Breathe.
Fucking breathe.
Maybe I should head back to Greer’s father’s house. I suck in a deep breath and before I turn around to head back to my SUV in the lot, I spot my father’s tall frame in the neatly landscaped courtyard near the entrance. I can do this.
“Hi, Dad,” I say once I’m close enough.
He smiles and extends his hand for me to shake. “Hey, Roman. I’m glad you dropped by today. Your mother’s been buzzing since she saw the news about you and Greer.”
Shit.
“Oh, right,” I mumble, rubbing at the back of my neck. How will I tell my mother that all the nonsense in the paper has been a giant hoax?
She’d never understand.
“Come on, she’s about to take her daily walk. If you want, you can go with her.”
“Uh, sure.” I can go for a walk with my mother.
We step inside, and I shadow my father as he strides past the front desk with an air of familiarity. It's evident that he’s here daily. Nurses greet him with friendly waves as we walk the corridors, engaging in brief exchanges of pleasantries.
We proceed down a spacious corridor and eventually arrive at a room located towards the end. My mother occupies the bed, her figure facing away from me as she gazes out of the window. “Walter, is that you?”
“Yes, Catherine,” my father says. “I’ve got someone who wants to see you.”
My mother turns around, her gaze locks onto mine, and in this fleeting moment, I’m met with a void—a chilling absence of recognition that sends a shiver down my spine. My heart lurches in my chest as I reel in disbelief. How could this be? Oh my god. The realization hits me like a thunderbolt—she doesn't recognize me.
Her own son.
I know this is common for patients with dementia, but it’s unsettling to see it firsthand. To see your mother look at you without a spark of recognition. Then, in a moment of clarity, something in her demeanor changes and she smiles, the memory of me floating back to her consciousness.
“Roman,” she says in a sweet voice. “How are you?”
I take a tentative step closer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Catherine, do you want to go for your daily walk with Roman?” my father asks. “You can show him the petunias you like.”
“Oh, yes, I like the petunias.” She glances up to look at me. “Would you like to see them?”
I nod. “Yeah, Mom. I’d like to see them.”
Watching my mother walk closer to me with a sweet smile is really messing with my head.
She’s so fragile. So different. Not the woman who raised me.
My father gives me quick directions to go out the back of the building toward the garden, and I wrap my mother’s tiny arm in mine and lead her out of the room.
Once we’re in the hallway, my mother smiles up at me. “How’s Greer?”
“She’s fine. She went to visit her father today.” I open the back door and we step out onto a brick path.
“I always adored Greer. Are you good to her?” It’s strange to have my mother asking about Greer. It’s like I’m wading through her memories. What all does she remember?
I think about how I’m always good to Greer. No matter what. Even when we’re not fake dating, I’m good to her. “Yes, Mother. Always.”
