Remember playing jump rope? Or watching others play? The jumper would wait, seeking the rhythm of the rope, before making her move and engaging in the game. Sometimes there were two ropes in play, something I could never succeed at for more than a minute or so. The rhythm was different depending on who was holding the rope. Surely there were all sorts of neuro and physiological benefits to this sort of play.
Dementia is a game whose rhythm I can’t fully dial into. Just when I think I have mom figured out, her cadence changes. Yes, some things remain the same… Who she is at her core, the regrettable and unkind path she has to walk, her still impressive language skills, her humor and her anger. The rhythm changes, sometimes easier, or more difficult to be with, but never predictable. This is a humbling lesson for someone who wants dust to line up with true north.