Weeds, whites and wine

In England, daffodils grow like weeds because the ground seldom freezes. When we arrived, much of Central London was carpeted with wild daffodils. If these grew in my yard, I would never spray.

Mom called last night asking if I would bring wine. I declined. She said she'd bought herself a bottle and had run out. How she got by all her supervision and got that done is beyond me. I checked her bank account on line and detected no activity, but she could have written a check that did not go through yet.

In the world of "old memory" my mother is a capable woman who loves a glass of wine when she gets home. She does not fall down, spill, or stumble. I know that when I am old and demented I will demand that the young folks trot along and make me a vodka martini, rocks, three garlic stuffed olives, a little dirty. I am learning not to expect new learning to "stick."

Diana was writing about her mother, who wants a DNR note in her file the majority of the time and occasionally wants to be revived. My mother planned suicide for a while, I think. She never intended to let her Alzheirmer's Disease go this far. But each new day brought something else she wanted to do, and her sense of time diminished, as did her appreciation of her own decline.

Mom wants to be revived if something happens to her. The other day she announced that she plans to live to be 102.

My mother wants to sit in a sunny room, with the New York Times, sipping wine, with one of her cats on her lap. She would like to go to Kansas and see her friends. She'd like to go to England with us, next time we go, and see those daffodils.

Optimism and dementia go hand in hand.