As I said, my mom's mind may be going. Some of the things she's said of late have me entertaining three possibilities:

1. She's fabricating stuff,
2. She's pulling stuff out of her past, or
3. She's been hiding this stuff in the present, but she's so ill now that she lacks the energies to keep up the pretense.

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It's a clichéd plot, isn't it? Parent tells stories to child, and child scoffs, thinking them legends and fairy tales. Then, plot either ends or changes to the next act with the denouement that those stories weren't falsehoods.

Another plot is to have the child tell the stories, and for that alternate reality to coalesce into firmament. Usually, the 'real' reality for that child is harsh and bitter, giving reason for the escape into the alternate.

We all love stories. As children, we loved them even more when they involved us, perhaps by allowing us to imagine ourselves the protagonists (or, for the non-conformists out there, the antagonists.) Perhaps because the story-teller knew us and based characters on us. Or, better yet, rendered us into those stories, no matter how (in)accurately. What is "make-believe" aside from "let's tell a story about me (and me and me and me)"?

However, the fact that it was a story, that we all knew it was fiction, was like the safety bar and harness in a roller coaster. It was fast, it was bumpy, it slung you side-to-side, but you never had to worry it was unsafe.

To have one's mother talk about oneself in relation to surreal things in that serious manner is another matter. I won't go into what she said, but will summarize it by saying that she's either going around the bend, she's mixing up past and present, or she's been playing a lot of cards closer to the vest than anyone else I know.

It's not a good feeling.