Grandma Stole My Wallet!

"Where's my wallet?"  Our son stood in the doorway looking confused and frustrated.
"I have no idea.  Why would I know where your wallet is?" I asked defensively.
"Check Grandma's walker," he answered.  "She probably took it."
ARGH! My son was accusing his grandma of stealing his wallet! I began to object but then remembered how she had 'lifted' his mail, his keys, and other objects she had found sitting on the table in the entry to his apartment.  I walked into the family room and lifted the walker seat to access the storage pocket.  With trepidation I reached in knowing full well that there would be assorted tissues and napkins that were both clean and used.  Tentatively, I fingered the top tissues feeling for something more substantive.  I dug deeper and my fingers touched something solid, something long, hard, and unrecognizable.  It wasn't a wallet.  It wasn't keys.  It was cold...metallic...a utensil.  I pulled it from the dark pocket to examine it more closely.  It was an ornate silver spoon.  I examined it with curiosity.  It was not a spoon I readily recognized and yet it was curiously familiar.  Where had I seen that before?  I turned to my mother and inquired, "Where did you get this?"  (What a foolish thing to ask since my mother's Alzheimer's disease severely limited her memory of ever having seen the object in question.)
"I don't know," she replied.  "I've never seen that before."
"Well you took it from somewhere!" I argued.
"No!  Someone else must've taken it and put it in my walker."
Exasperated, I removed the spoon and placed it on the counter telling myself that I would ask my husband, Skip about it later.  When I saw him I showed him the spoon and asked if he recognized it.
"Nope.  Maybe someone who brought something to our house over the holidays had a spoon with them and forgot to take it home."  This was a logical conclusion since we often found trays, plates and serving utensils that assorted guests left behind.  (Let me digress for a moment as I explain that we have had to limit much of our socializing to at-home events because of the need to care for and supervise Mom.  We invite people to our home because to visit elsewhere is difficult and often impossible the last minute.  We must arrange for and pay for a sitter to be with my mother, to prepare her meal, and assist her to undress and get ready for bed.  If we are gone for several hours, the cost begins to escalate and I find that we often have to cut our visit short.)

I puzzled over whose spoon it might be, where and when Mom had found it, and how she had managed to put it in her walker without us being aware that it was missing.  Suddenly it struck me where I had seen this silver pattern.  I picked up the phone and called our daughter.  "Did you lose a spoon?" I asked.
Dorie sounded confused as she answered, "I...uh...I don't know.  Why?"
Because I think that we may have it.  After explaining what I had found, I turned the spoon over and read the engraving on the back.  Yes, it was our daughter's silver pattern!  Now the question was how it had ended up in Mom's walker.  In the spirit of true detectives, Skip and I reconstructed the events at the 'scene of the crime.'  We had ventured out with Mom to go to Christmas dinner at our daughter and son-in-law's home a couple of weeks prior to my discovery of the pilfered object.  Mom sat at the dinner table fingering the napkin ring at her place.  It was beaded and appeared to be a bangle bracelet.  She was entranced with the texture, the visual appeal, the crush, movement and rotation of the beads woven into the round shape.  Skip was seated next to Mom at the table and when he got up to take a second helping of a delicious dinner, Mom reached over and grabbed Skip's napkin ring.  When he noticed that she had his napkin as well we laughed and joked about it. Skip teased her that she was a kleptomaniac.  Little did we know that Mom had also taken a spoon off of the table when we weren't looking.

I wonder what other things we might find if we do a thorough search of her drawers, her pockets, and of course the black hole of her walker seat where I fear to explore.  Haven't I found pilfered pens, mail
, money, laundry, towels, cups, photos, cards, glasses and other assorted items belonging to us in Mom's possession?  Hasn't she squirreled away things left on counters, on tables, anything within her sight and/or reach?  Hadn't I noticed that some of her panties that she was wearing looked exactly the same as my own undergarments until I realized that I hadn't seen my panties recently?  Yes, that is what my mother had become: a thief!  My son was not so far off with his accusation after all.  It hadn't happened yet, but I knew with a growing certainty that if left out for her to find, my mother would most definitely be the culprit if Bill's wallet went missing.  I imagined the moment to come when I might hear, "Grandma stole my wallet."
'Sticky fingers' are just one more side effect of dementia.  I will definitely have to 'frisk' Mom before I put her to bed tonight.