We visited again this morning with Sturdy Grandmother, after we had slept in a little, packed up and checked out of our hotel, and after I had found a Starbuck$ to fuel my habit. (Yes, I know, that makes me part of the problem and not part of the solution, but I was desperate. I did give the hotel swill a chance, but it just made me miss St Casserole's morning offerings too much, and I caved.)

When we got there, her room was empty, and we walked down the hallway looking for her. When OEH saw her at the nurse's station, he began worrying out loud that Grandma had been sitting there for hours waiting for us, since he'd promised that we'd come back this morning. I kept my suspicions to myself, because I knew he'd find out soon enough.

We approached her and OEH began apologizing to his grandmother for being later than we thought we would be. But then she said it:

"Who are you people? Do I know you?" She was completely taken by surprise.

The truth for her, for now and for the rest of her life is that every visit takes her by surprise. Breakfast takes her by surprise. Looking down and realizing that she has shoes on takes her by surprise. Every moment from now on is a new discovery.

I was telling my mother about the visit on the telephone, hours later, in the comfort of my living room. I was explaining what it was like to be around people with dementia. She listened politely, and finally she began telling me what it was like to be "forgetful".

Because of several illnesses, and several powerful medications, my mother's synapses don't fire as sharply as they once did. She used to tell my father everything that she really needed to remember. Then she began writing it down, when it became obvious that he wasn't much better at remembering. Then they both began writing things down, but forgetting where they kept the little notes. It's kind of a running joke in our family. But I think it is losing its humor.

I think of what it must be like for my husband's grandmother, when everything is a surprise, every moment a new discovery. I'm wondering if there is a sort of independence in it. No longer does she have to be bothered by remembering what day it is, or what the weather is like, or where she left her glasses. There is always someone nearby to get her to where she needs to be, to help her get dressed, to put her glasses on her face for her. She is suddenly free from the harsher memories of her life, from the memories of drudgery, or loneliness, or fear.

Sometime when my mother-in-law talks about her mother and her dementia she will say something like "Mom went to Canada again the last time I talked with her." She is referring to a frequently occurring story line in which Sturdy Grandmother's nurse, Jim, marries her and whisks her away to Niagara Falls for a honeymoon. I can't help but wonder if she always wanted to go to Canada, and now is her chance.

Plus--I've met Jim, and he is kind of a looker. She could do a lot worse.