For as early as I could remember, my mother had been a bright, cheerful woman deeply interested and involved in the world around her. However, in the last fifteen years of her life, she had to live with senile dementia  . I would go to my home to pay her a visit in California and she would curiously look at me and then ask, "Who are you?" I would answer, "I'm your own son, of course." "Where do you live?" She would ask. "In Virginia", I would tell her. "Isn't that interesting," she would say, "I have a son in Virginia." Mother seemed only forgetful as well as confused at the beginning of that disease, but sometime later she would go through different time of intense anxiety. She would keep walk ing through the house she used to live in most of her life crying uneasily that she would like to go home. Or sometimes she left home and wandered away if she were unattended for a short time. Hoping to make her happy and put her mind at ease I would take her in my car, visiting sites where she used to live when she was a child. In the yard of the hillside house in Shipman I sat in the car and admired the view of the old oaks and long green lawn . I _ my mother there was a little girl playing with the pet lamb she had been so fond of. I looked to her for some response. She shook her head and said, "I want to go home." Over the years I have decided that what my mother was calling home was not a place, but a time. I think it was a time when she was much younger, when her children were still underfoot, when her husband was still energetic and attentive. Watching my mother's suffering set me wondering where I would have in mind if someday I couldn't find home and wanted to go there. In this family we tend to be long-lived and we grow fuzzy   minded as the years go by. At eighty I have already noticed some alarming symptoms. My doctor says the forgetfulness is only natural and that it comes with age. Still the fear of senile dementia is haunting there. Someday if and when I become even more cloudy minded than I am now, unable to drive and unable to tell you where "home" is, my dear son, I expect I will ask you to take me home, I know you will do your best to find the place I need to be. I leave these notes for your guidance. Which of the following is NOT the symptom of the mother of the author?
forgetful confused cheerful uneasy