Words fail when visiting a dementia patient.

I never fully understood what “living in the moment” meant until I watched my loved one decline from Alzheimer’s disease.

“I bought you some cookies at the store,” I say as soon as I enter her room in the memory care unit. I hold out my offering, two pieces of shortbread covered in pink sprinkles.

“What are they?” she asks.

“They’re cookies.” I suddenly wish I had purchased cookies that were more recognizable in their cookie-ness. Chocolate chip would have been better. The pink sprinkles are confusing.

“Did you make these? Oh you’re so sweet to me.”

“No, I can’t take credit. I bought them at Whole Foods.” I set the bag on her dresser and sit down.

All forms of small talk are impossible. She doesn’t remember what she had for lunch, who she has recently seen, or even what day it is. A simple question like “What did you do today?” is a real stumper.

On the drive over I rehearsed things I could talk about: our dog Merlin, the kids going to gymnastics, and my sister and I shopping at IKEA. The advanced preparation helps a bit, but it’s pretty much a one-sided conversation.

I bring out my phone, which is my secret weapon. We scroll through pictures of family life. All the photos waiting to be uploaded to the computer are a wonderful time filler. We discover a glut of selfies my daughter took, and these produce gigantic smiles.

I open up Facebook and pull up more pictures from cousins across the world.

It doesn’t matter when the pictures were posted because they are as fresh as brand new.

But pretty soon we run out of photos, and I scramble to fill the time. I want to stretch the visit out longer than 15 minutes, but it’s hard.

I comment on the blooming heather outside her window, which is a deep shade of purple.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “That blooms for six or seven months.” I nod at the untruth, seeing no point in arguing. “And the lake,” she continues. “Your brother has his things over there.” My face freezes. I have no brother.

Now’s the time to be strong and ignore all sadness.

I launch into a description about a Ken Burns documentary I watched about the Roosevelt family. Maybe a different era will jog her memory. It does — kind of — but not in a way that produces meaningful conversation.

Finally, I get up to go. I walk over to the dresser, take the cookies out, and set them on the brown paper bag. “Don’t forget about the cookies.”

“Cookies! Did you make those?”

“No, I bought them for you.”

“You made cookies for me?” She wraps her arms around me in a hug.

“Yes.” I nod, because why fight it? “Just for you.”

“Oh, you’re so …” She struggles to find the word. “Cooperative!”

I’m not sure what adjective she was searching for, but this one is fine.

Jennifer Bardsley lives in Edmonds. Her book “Genesis Girl” comes out Sept. 27. Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, Twitter @jennbardsley or at teachingmybabytoread.com.

By Jenny Bardsley