Through the Eyes of Another

I look at my mother and see she is scared and alone: having little memory makes her feel dependent and frustrated. I notice these and many other thoughts and emotions as they demonstrate themselves in anger, bitterness, moaning and other symptoms of her illness.

But it was only yesterday that I asked myself, what would it be like, looking out at the world from inside her head, with her eyes, with her limited understanding yet occasional clarity? And what I see is another world; not the world I see but an unreal one in which there is little personal control, one in which people speak an alien language:

I know what I want to say but no-one seems to understand me and I feel sad and alone.

For me much is unfamiliar and yet there are bits I remember and yet I hesitate to say it for fear of looking stupid.

A man is talking to me: he seems to expect me to know him but I don’t think I do: oh, I’d better admit I don’t.

What’s up - they are so stupid – don’t they know what I’m saying?

“I’m not stupid you know; there’s nothing wrong with my head.”

Oh, my son. I love him so much: I want him to be with me always. Why can’t he stay? Huh, he doesn’t really want me; am I a burden to him? “Oh, go away, you don’t love me!” “God, I wish I were dead.”