My mom asked me yesterday if she was my mom.

I smiled at her and said, “Of course you are!”

And then I explained dementia to her, again, how her short term memory would go first, and then older memories. How she would be unsure of all memories at a point.

“But,” I said, “even if you forget who I am, I’ll still keep coming over almost every day and spend time with you.”

She deflected, “But I have so many memories. I remember so many things.”

“Well,” I said, “do you remember what you had for breakfast?” I saw her eyes swing to the side, trying to find that answer, but it wasn’t there.

At that point, perhaps, it seems like someone might cry, realizing that this is their fate.

My mom has been working her whole life to make sure that would not be her reaction to bad news.

She didn’t cry.

Mom asked, “But what if I forget to take care of Zach?” Zach is her cat.

“You won’t,” I said. “But I’ll make sure he’s ok no matter what.”

My grandmother, my mom’s mom, had a cat named Nicare while she was still living in her home alone, while her own dementia was progressing.

Grandma didn’t feed Nicare properly. My mom will never forget that.

When it comes to cats, my mom is hyper-attentive. She called me, in fact, three times yesterday worried about Zach.

“He’s just not eating. He just keeps sleeping all day. I think something is wrong with him.”

This is my mom’s way of saying we need to take him to the vet.

My mom is remembering, though, when you could take a cat to the vet for no more than $20.

The last time I took Zach to the vet we spent over $1000.

That is mostly because I am a sucker for “Well, if we really want to know such and such, we are going to have to do such and such expensive testing.”

Mom has been calling me about Zach, with this same concern, for over a year and a half. From the time she moved into this retirement community.

Zach lost a bit of weight when they moved but has been the same since. I know this because I bring a scale over and weigh him.

My mom feeds Zach the way she has always fed her cats: she puts out several plates of food, both dry and wet, and leaves them out all day. And all night. And then again the next day. And so on.

She replaces the wet food when she can see it glaze over. The dry food just seems to always be there.

Now though–with her dementia, with her small room, with her focus almost always on Zach–she pays attention to him all the time.

No matter how much she pays attention, though, it is impossible for her to watch Zach all day and all night. He does eat–there is evidence in the litter box.

The food out and plentiful all the time, though, she simply can’t tell if he’s eaten looking at the plates of food.

When I’m over I always see him eat, at least a bit.

So my mom calls me most days about Zach and I reassure her that he’s ok. That cats sleep a lot. That Zach is thirteen and doesn’t play as much.

And when it is true, that I saw him eating earlier that day, that I petted him and played with him that morning.

She is always reassured and thanks me.

And she says that she is sorry for bothering me.

Of all this, that’s what gets me.

My mom doesn’t want to bother me. That she feels somehow that she could ever be a bother. That in her loneliness she is sitting on her couch with Zach worrying about calling her son, who has told her again and again and again that she can call anytime.

That of the times she actually calls, there are probably a thousand more when she doesn’t.

And then I hear her question again in my head, “Am I your mom?”

And of course I understand.

And though I am so much like my mom–creative, caring, generous–we are also vastly different.

For these thoughts undo me.

And I still remember how to cry.