A Daughter’s Voice
My mother sometimes knows me. And sometimes she does not.
Sometimes I am her sister. Sometimes her mother. Sometimes an old friend from school.
I am never sure which it will be.
“Mummy,” I say, taking her hand. “It’s Debbie Doll.”
“Debbie Doll!” she smiles. For she remembers suddenly the name she gave her little girl all those years ago.
But at times even that prompt is not enough. Softly I say a few more words, and then her smile returns.
“Oh, my daughter, Debbie Doll! I recognize your voice!”
I recall how sometimes people with dementia grow bright and happy when they hear music they have loved. Perhaps my voice sounds like music to my mother’s ears?
I soothe my heart with this reflection. To my mother so often lost in a mist , my voice can sometimes be the music to help part the haze.
“I love you, Mummy!” I say, squeezing her hand.
“I love you too, my Debbie Doll!”