My father loved to dance. He was always first on the dance floor at a party or wedding. I will never forget him dragging me out on an empty dance floor at my high school father daughter dance night. He had looked forward to that very much and had made me a deal about attending together. I was less enthusiastic about though lost my dancing self consciousness as a young adult.
My mother though never did. She and my father at some point took ballroom dance lessons together, which I think suited her. She could tap out the beats of a waltz.
And yet, since arriving at this particular stage of dementia, Mom cannot seem to stop dancing. A freestyling, so what if there is no music kind of way. One day recently, Mom and I were looking at a magazine together and saw an image of a drum set. She immediately suggested we dance. So dance we did, me twirling her and her twirling me. Sometimes there is finger snapping too.
Most of the time, I am grateful that my dad missed seeing Mom go downhill like this. Sis and I are agreed that it would have broken his heart too much too bear. And yet, I wish he could have danced with her like this– confidently, with music only in their imaginations, through the assisted living halls.
Not quite the plan 