Alzheimer’s patients struggle with dream states, as the agitation of their waking hours are set loose to jostle their minds insanely while they sleep. And then upon waking, the surrealism of their dreams dissolves seamlessly into the disorientation of their days. It was common for Mike to have Rose emerge from her room first thing in the morning, ashen and agitated and begging to know what was real and what had been a dream.
“Why would you boys do this?” she now asked her sons as she quivered, equal parts angry and scared when they sat her down a little past midnight. The shock of having them in her bedroom in the middle of the night, the craziness of what they told her—the funhouse mirrors of her mind were having their way with her.
“Mom, it’s true,” John said softly, sitting on one side of her on the bed, holding her hand while Mike sat on the other. “Dad’s alive. Larry, your husband, is alive. And we’ll explain it all to you when we can, but right now we need you to come see him. He’s waiting for you.”
“Your father died. A long time ago,” she said slowly and with grave solemnity. “You know this. Why are you doing this to me?”
She focused all her attention on John. For so long, he was all she had. He was the one to make things right. And now she was pleading with him to stop breaking her heart.
His eyes welled at her anguish. But before he could respond, Mike moved from beside her to kneel at her slippered feet. He took both her hands and looked in her eyes.
“Mom,” he said softly, “we need you to trust us. Can you do that? Can you get dressed, and just come for a drive with us? We’ll bring you right back, and we’ll get you back into bed, and in the morning you’ll forget all about this. Okay?”
Something long gone stirred inside her. This sensitivity, from her angry, unsettled son, was lovely. Even if this was only a dream, she was grateful to have him hold her hands and speak gently to her. She would follow him anywhere so long as he seemed to love her again.