Confirming What We Already Know

Used to Be Mother sits in her chair upright and alert. She senses what's about to happen in the doctor's office this afternoon is important and that she has to answer correctly. The geriatic assessment begins easily enough. Day. Month. Year.  Name. City. Repeat these five words. Her confidence now wanes as the questions become progressively more difficult. Country. Country? She looks vacantly at him. I don't know.  Can you tell me what these pictures are? She studies the shapes trying to make sense of them. "Help me Bonnie," she pleads. I don't know what those shapes are. I don't know what you would call that. Can you draw me a clock? Tick tock. Make it say eleven o'clock. Her confidence rises again. This is Puntual Mother who has a love affair with a clock since she could tell time. A clock was an abusive friend, a taskmaster, a governor of all her actions and decisions. She's been driven by a clock her whole life. Good the doctor says. She has no trouble subtracting and manipulating numbers in the next few questions. Used to Be Mother filed my dad's taxes for years. She can still add columns of numbers quickly and accurately. She's smiling. Happy that she knows something. Now I want you to count backwards from 100 by 7's. I try to do this in my head. Oh God! Am I also being stricken with dementia? I can't get past 56 without really concentrating. Used to Be answers 92. I know that 92 + 7 = 100. She beams. Her face clouds almost as quickly. I know that's not right. But I don't remember what you want me to do. That's okay Mrs. T.  Repeat this sentence: "And I mean no and's, if's or but's." She's confused again. She doesn't know what he means. She shrugs her shoulders. Embarrassed. Vulnerable. Exposed. What is that paper on the floor? (Earlier, he had told her to fold it up and toss it on the floor at the beginning of her assessment). She stares at the floor trying to recall what was so important about that paper. We're just about done. He asks her to name all the words she can in one minute that begin with "F". He begins the timer. She looks at me pleading for a clue. I shut my eyes to keep the dam of tears from erupting. She sighs and then begins: Friend. Forest. Fur. Flower. She smiles as she tells him "there are so many flowers but I don't remember the names of them anymore." Her minute is up. She can't remember what she is supposed to do. He leaves the room to fill out some papers. Boy he sure was asking me a lot of questions. Is he the doctor? When I confirm yes he is, she wonders why he hasn't taken her blook pressure or looked in her mouth or checked out her ears. Why did he waste all that time asking me those hard questions?
He comes back with letters we need for the power of attorney. For her personal directive. Is there anything else we need to discuss today? Aren't you going to check my pressure? Her tone borders on chastisement. He graciously checks her blood pressure. Anything else? I'm not sleeping so well. What time do you go to bed? 7 p.m. When do you wake up? 3 a.m. Well that's a good 8 hours of sleep. Maybe you need to go to bed later. What would I do? She has exercised. Read. Eaten. Cleaned. Watched the rosary being said on television. She promises him she will try to stay up later. As we leave the office, she clutches my hand. What is this place Bonnie? Where are we?