We didn’t understand what was happening as things got worse. We kind of understood the memory loss, the groping for a word. Mom always had a disjointed way of storytelling — nothing was particularly linear. She’d pick up a storyline three days after she started as if no time had passed. We always called them “Bettyisms” but we, her daughters, always understood her reference and could bounce back into the flow of whatever she referred to. These Bettyisms always bewildered my father, however. He could never pick up the thread. …