Visitors
As my mother loses her ability to work a TV remote, she begins to believe that her favorite shows only appear on certain televisions. Ellen DeGeneres is in her room, while Bonnie Hunt is in the basement. When I visit or talk to my mother on the phone, we talk about the shows, and even though she can’t remember names of guests, she enjoys telling me how funny the games were or if jokes included half-naked men.
About once a week or so, Bonnie Hunt’s mother appears on her show via webcam and comments on recent events or answers viewers’ questions. My mother thinks she is hilarious. When I talk to my mother, I ask if Bonnie’s mom was on the show. She usually answers, “No, she didn’t talk to me today.”
This dialogue goes on for about a year, and in the process, my mother loses more of her vocabulary. I ask her if she watched her show today, and she says, “Ellen wasn’t here.”
My aunt has been really great about calling every day from Texas just to say “hi,” and she comes up in our conversations, too. I ask my mother if her sister called, and she replies, “Yes, she was here.”
A few months later, my mother and I watch episodes of the comedy Community on DVD. She laughs through every episode and begins calling it “the funny show.” Since she only watches the program when I’m around, she begins to associate it with me. One night we flip through the channels and come across The Soup. My mother recognizes Joel McHale from Community and says, “Look, there’s your friend.”
My friend? I wish. Explaining how television and recorded shows work seems like a waste of time, so I don’t correct her. As we watch the rest of the episode, I wonder if this is just a symptom of lost verbal expressions, or if she really believes people enter the house through these electronic “windows.”
A few months later, my father returns home from work to find my mother pacing in the kitchen, her eyes wide and hands shaking. She tells him, “There are men. Lots of men. In the bedroom.” He asks his visibly-frightened wife if they are still there and what they are doing. “Just in the bedroom,” she whispers, “running around.”
My father ventures down the hall and finds the room looking as it usually does-- sans men running around. My mother peeks around the doorframe and points to the television; it’s still on and showing a college basketball game. March Madness has not only interrupted her normal afternoon programming, but intruded in a way my family could not predict.
About once a week or so, Bonnie Hunt’s mother appears on her show via webcam and comments on recent events or answers viewers’ questions. My mother thinks she is hilarious. When I talk to my mother, I ask if Bonnie’s mom was on the show. She usually answers, “No, she didn’t talk to me today.”
This dialogue goes on for about a year, and in the process, my mother loses more of her vocabulary. I ask her if she watched her show today, and she says, “Ellen wasn’t here.”
My aunt has been really great about calling every day from Texas just to say “hi,” and she comes up in our conversations, too. I ask my mother if her sister called, and she replies, “Yes, she was here.”
A few months later, my mother and I watch episodes of the comedy Community on DVD. She laughs through every episode and begins calling it “the funny show.” Since she only watches the program when I’m around, she begins to associate it with me. One night we flip through the channels and come across The Soup. My mother recognizes Joel McHale from Community and says, “Look, there’s your friend.”
My friend? I wish. Explaining how television and recorded shows work seems like a waste of time, so I don’t correct her. As we watch the rest of the episode, I wonder if this is just a symptom of lost verbal expressions, or if she really believes people enter the house through these electronic “windows.”
A few months later, my father returns home from work to find my mother pacing in the kitchen, her eyes wide and hands shaking. She tells him, “There are men. Lots of men. In the bedroom.” He asks his visibly-frightened wife if they are still there and what they are doing. “Just in the bedroom,” she whispers, “running around.”
My father ventures down the hall and finds the room looking as it usually does-- sans men running around. My mother peeks around the doorframe and points to the television; it’s still on and showing a college basketball game. March Madness has not only interrupted her normal afternoon programming, but intruded in a way my family could not predict.
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