Words
My mother’s
vocabulary declines sharply in the years after her diagnosis. The dialogue between my sisters and I changes
from listing the words our mother forgets to noticing those that she
remembers. She retains names of family
members and close friends, as well as basic prepositional phrases and
possessives. For example, though she
doesn’t know what to call Milk Duds or her favorite fuzzy pink socks, she does
not hesitate to assert, “These are mine.”
For as long as I can remember, my mother has insisted that she sings poorly. During church services, her voice carried hymns well, but she never sang loud enough for anyone to hear unless they were standing next to her.
Now, when she loses her ability to read song lyrics or group prayers, she makes up words. She is more worried about people noticing that she isn’t participating than she is about how she sounds. Even though many of the melodies may be familiar, she has lost the words. She sings her made-up lyrics louder than she ever sang the correct ones. She is even sure to pause between verses with the rest of the congregation to blend in as much as she can.
Talking gibberish is also something she does frequently, especially when attempting to convey activities she and my father did during the day, or when she wants to go somewhere. Like a character from the “Sims” video games, she speaks incoherently and gestures. I nod and pretend like I understand exactly what she is saying. My usual reply is, "Maybe in a little while."
My mother still remembers some of her English, and she uses one word in particular quite a bit: hate. She uses it to describe things she doesn’t really care for, like green beans (“I hate this”). She says it about the bra I help her put on before we run errands (“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it”).
She also uses the word in conjunction with her actions. When she spills her food or breaks something fragile or gets her cloths dirty, she prefaces her explanation with “You’re going to hate me.” Though she cannot follow with a verbal explanation, the results usually speak for themselves. No matter the mess, my father, my sisters, and I reassure her that we certainly do not hate her, and we wait for the time when she stops hating herself.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has insisted that she sings poorly. During church services, her voice carried hymns well, but she never sang loud enough for anyone to hear unless they were standing next to her.
Now, when she loses her ability to read song lyrics or group prayers, she makes up words. She is more worried about people noticing that she isn’t participating than she is about how she sounds. Even though many of the melodies may be familiar, she has lost the words. She sings her made-up lyrics louder than she ever sang the correct ones. She is even sure to pause between verses with the rest of the congregation to blend in as much as she can.
Talking gibberish is also something she does frequently, especially when attempting to convey activities she and my father did during the day, or when she wants to go somewhere. Like a character from the “Sims” video games, she speaks incoherently and gestures. I nod and pretend like I understand exactly what she is saying. My usual reply is, "Maybe in a little while."
My mother still remembers some of her English, and she uses one word in particular quite a bit: hate. She uses it to describe things she doesn’t really care for, like green beans (“I hate this”). She says it about the bra I help her put on before we run errands (“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it”).
She also uses the word in conjunction with her actions. When she spills her food or breaks something fragile or gets her cloths dirty, she prefaces her explanation with “You’re going to hate me.” Though she cannot follow with a verbal explanation, the results usually speak for themselves. No matter the mess, my father, my sisters, and I reassure her that we certainly do not hate her, and we wait for the time when she stops hating herself.
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