Did someone steal Grandma’s sweater or is dementia stealing Grandma’s mind?
“She took my sweater! I saw her. She stole it! That woman took my sweater my mother made for me!”
Victoria, the lady ranting about her sweater, was sitting in her wheelchair. I’d offered to take her down to Rosewood’s main dining room, as I was going down there to sit with my mother-in-law, anyway.
I was used to Victoria. Once she was done eating, she would order me (or anyone nearby) to take her out of the dining room, and place her in a certain spot in the sitting room, an exact number of inches away from the end table. I mean the exact spot. She liked me, as I knew where that spot was.
Victoria had a thing about her red sweater. It was obviously purchased at a store – the tag was still on it, though it was faded. She wore the sweater daily, until a CNA would finally tell her enough was enough. She would be told that the sweater would get washed and she would get it back the next day. Victoria had a closet full of sweaters, but that didn’t matter. She wanted her red one. That red one. And anyone who took anything away from Victoria stole it.