“Where’s Bob?  Where’s your dad?” she asked over and over, never tiring or remembering.  “He’s at the beach” I’d reply with increasing impatience. It didn’t really matter where he was. This happened anytime Dad(Bob) was away from the house. Something pretty amazing, albeit simple, was born out of the irritation.  The dry erase board we used to keep track of therapy times and medication dosages transformed into the keeper of “all things Bob” and, eventually, answers of any kind. This slightly discolored, badly hung piece of plastic was magic. Recording the days answers became a new ritual.   “What do you want to know today Mom?  Let’s put it on the board.”  The anxiety and pressure dissipated almost immediately with this new way of communicating.

Mom: “Where’s Bob? Where’s your dad?”

Me:  “Look at your board Mom”

Mom:  “Oh. He’s at the beach”

Mom:  “When is lunch?”

Me:  “Look at your board Mom”

Mom:  “I already had lunch. Soup and a sandwich”

Mom:  “What kind of sandwich?”

Damn!  She got me this time.  Soon, though,  my reply wasn’t even needed. She was seeking out her own answer.  Remembering.  Remembering that the board existed. Remembering that the questions already had answers.  Remembering where Dad was.