How is she doing?

It's been a week since my mom, Aileen, entered an Alzheimers unit.
It's new and very clean,
has individual bedrooms,
a lounge,
a dining room,
a game room,
a crafts room,
a flower garden/yard area,
and friendly, competent workers.
Mom's room is right off the garden,
and has a visiting area in one corner
that allows for five guests at a time.
The room is bright
and filled with art,
books,
and photographs from home.

Starting a parent at an assisted living facility
is similar to starting a child in kindergarten.
You dress them in clean, attractive clothing,
take them on a Monday morning,
stay for a short time,
then leave.
You come back when you're told,
and have questions for those in charge:
How is she doing?
Is she getting along well with others?
Does she seem to fit in?

In Mom's case,
they say she's adjusting well.
She often thinks the others are former students,
and she falls somewhere in the middle ability-wise.
She has a lifelike baby doll there with her.
Some of the residents thought it was real,
and were amused that Mom had tricked them.
Some others think it is real
and beg to babysit.
A few think Mom is crazy for carrying around a fake baby,
ironic.

Memory loss comes in different ways.
If memory is like a beach,
some have theirs tidally eroded,
predictably,
little by little.
Mom's memory is a beach at low tide
in a war zone,
with craters in the sand.
She can seem totally normal,
then BOOM!
Where did that hole come from?
Holes used to consist of repeating stories,
restated questions,
forgetting to eat.
More recent holes have included hygiene issues,
which perhaps pushed her move somewhat.
The most recent hole was not knowing her letters:
A visit included a nurse-led group game of hangman.
This time, we're guessing a phrase.
Give me a letter. Ann?
B.
No B. Jo?
A... for Angel!
Mary?
B.
We've already had B. Pick another letter.
K.
Fred?
Silence.
Hurry up, will you?!?
Charley! Be nice! Fred doesn't want to play. Aileen?
My turn? What do you want me to do? Pick a letter? ...Man!
M? OK. Charlie?
B!
We've already had B. Pick another letter.
When they get to Lucille, she has some hard words figured out.
She's the top of the class.
Jo always responds with letters from "Angel" enthusiastically,
and makes others laugh.
She's the class clown.
Fred seems to be at the bottom this day.
Mom is the most talkative,
and doesn't seem too concerned that she doesn't know her letters.

We return to Mom's room,
where I've recently returned her things to their appropriate places.
She regularly puts her things in piles
on the bookshelf
or just outside her door:
shampoo,
toothpaste,
jewelry,
photos,
books,
scarves.
Is this packing for home,
or simply a continuation of the rearranging
that she did nightly at her house?
I guess it depends on your point of view;
the glass is either half empty or half full.
The mom I've seen in the past week
was clean,
animated,
more of the personality I knew years ago,
instead of often curled up on her couch
in damp, wrinkly clothing,
feeling sick.

The glass is half full.