Her China Cup

September 10, 2010

Earlier in the week, we thought we had a breakthrough when Mother recognized one of her china cups. "Ah! That’s my old stuff!" She always used to say, "Oscar loved to drink out of these cups." She started to say it, then, frustrated, couldn't remember what she was supposed to say. I said it for her.

“Oscar loved those cups.”

“Who? Who?”

"Oscar. My daddy. Your husband. He sent you these dishes when he was on R&R in Japan, remember, when he fought in the Korean War?

"Who?"

"Oscar."

I took family portrait off the wall in the hall and laid it on the table in front of her.

“That’s Oscar,” I said, pointing.

“Where is this?”

“Your 50^th Wedding anniversary.”

“Who is that?”

“Oscar. Your husband. My daddy.”

Blank stare.

“Where are you? Can you find yourself?”

Nothing.

“That’s you.”

“Who’s that?”

“You," I said, and began pointing. "Oscar and Wayne and Janis and Greg.”

“Who’s that?” Her gnarled finger pointed at my older brother.

“Wayne. Your baby boy.”

“Who?”

“Wayne.”

“Where is he?”

“He's in California. Do you want to call him?”

“Yes!” She said it vehemently.

Later, on the phone with Wayne:

“Who is this?”

“Who are you?”

“Who ARE you?”

“Who am I?”

Nothing.

Then she starts jabbering. I think she has recognized his voice. Maybe not. “I’m not sure where I am. I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll get this figured out.”

We hang up the phone. John Wayne is on TV. “Who’s that? Where are we?”