We slowly made our way down the flowered hallways, flowered wallpaper lining our pathway, flowers edging the muted carpet on the floor. I deliberately shortened my stride, moving so slowly it felt like the walking meditation I’d done 20 minutes at a time at Spirit Rock Meditation Center on 10 day Vipassana retreats. My mother was teetering nearby, floating with an expression on her face that looked sweet and empty at the same time. I’d taken her on a walk around the second floor of the building, up the elevator, circling three hallways, and back again. We passed the front desk, the music room, the library, and around the corner past the activity room, the place with the large looseleaf notebook out front where you can sign up for outings on the first day of the month—the scenic drives, a monthly movie, outings to Walgreens or Rite Aid to stock up on shampoo or Depends.
The first time I saw the Sunshine Villa bus, six months ago, I looked at the huge letters across the side of the bus on both sides, shouting out for all to see: Sunshine Villa Assisted Living and Memory Care. I remember thinking at the time, there was no way Mom would ever live here, ride in a bus like that. It would be way too humiliating. I felt the same way when I visited on Saint Patrick’s day and the halls were full of little cardboard shamrocks and leprechauns or at Halloween when black cats and orange pumpkins lined the halls. For the entire month of December, canned Christmas carols blared from speakers in the hall. That would be hell on earth for my proud Jewish mother, to be in such a goyisha place. It was like a holiday curriculum at a preschool on steroids. Is this what they think old people want?
Now, six months after my first visit, Mom was living here, being helped up into the van with the letters screaming Memory Care on the side, enjoying the scenic drives to nowhere.
And I was visiting her, every day, pretty much, when I was home, because somehow at 56 for me and 85 for her, a new umbilical cord had grown between us. I’d ripped the last one to shreds in my twenties, decimated it in my thirties, yet here we were growing a new one. How could it be, that now, despite my wife and my three children, my grandson and another one on the way, that my mother had suddenly become—once again, as she had been at the dawn of my life—the most important person to me? She was the one I woke up thinking of, the one I fretted over as I fell asleep, the one I felt I just had to see, had to call, had to check in on.
And so, once again, I had signed in at the front desk register and had insisted that Mom get some exercise. And now we were rounding the hall to her room. She was panting, exhausted by my healthy outing. I watched her pull the blue stretchy plastic cord from around her wrist. She wears it all the time now when she’s not sleeping—it holds the key to her apartment, number 103. Shaking, she held the key up to the lock, the wrong way, three times. Three attempts, three failures. Everything in me wanted to pull out my key—the one I keep handy in the change purse of my wallet—so I could do it for her, but I didn’t. I let her have the dignity of opening her own door, of managing that one little bit of independence.
When she finally succeeded, she set her cane by the door and sat down heavily on the light colored couch we raised up on plastic risers so she could get in and out of it a little easier. Newspapers were sprawled over the couch and across her glass coffee table. A large desk calendar covered half its surface, each day crossed out with a big black X. There was a dish with some leftover candy, a tattered deck of cards with a rubber band around them, the bright orange laminated phone list I had made for her, with a list of names and phone numbers in bold 24-point type on both sides.
I sat down next to her, and then immediately hopped up because sometimes it’s hard to just sit there with her in that room. Weren’t there things I needed to do? I checked her answering machine messages and erased them and brought them over to her. And asked if she’d called people back, but of course she didn’t remember. She had missed yet another meeting of the playreading group she used to attend on the first Monday of every month. And so I dialed her friend Shirley’s number so she could apologize. “I won’t forget again,” she told Shirley, but of course I knew she would forget in five minutes—and she certainly wouldn’t remember a month from now when the first Monday of March rolled around.
I went through the pile of newspapers and threw the old ones in the recycling bin. I straightened the things on the table. Rescued a stray pen that had rolled under the couch. Put the TV remote and the phone within reach. My chores done, I sat back down. She asked me what was new with Lizzy and Karyn. And then: “How’s Eli?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I hardly talk to him,” I replied. “Remember, he’s living in Boston.”
“Oh yeah, he’s in Boston. Your kids,” she said, “You have the greatest kids. They are really special. That Lizzy. Did I ever tell you that she has ala meles.”
It was my turn to smile. “I know, Mom. All the virtues.” This was a pleasure we both could still share.
“You know,” she said, looking right at me, “I’m really in the right place living here. I can see I belong. I just hope I don’t live very long.” She said it just like that, smiling, like she did every time I saw her. “I’m pretty happy here,” she added, “but you know what I always say, ‘I want to quit while I’m ahead.’”
“Well, Mom, unfortunately, we don’t get to control how much time we have.” And that was the truth. Neither of us knew how far down this road we would be walking together, only that we would be walking it together.
Then we made small talk, the same small talk we had made five minutes earlier. Only now the repetition no longer annoyed me; it was even comforting in a strange kind of way.
“I’m getting kind of hungry,” Mom said. “I’m ready to go to dinner.”
“Well, I said, gathering up my purse and my iPhone. “I’ll walk you to the dining room. I have to go pick up Lizzy at work anyway.”
When we reached the doorway, there was the index card I’d taped up right over the doorknob. In thick black bold capital letters it asked, “Have you brushed your hair?” Mom looked at it and said, “I read that everyday,” but she didn’t do anything about it, so I said, “Hold on a sec, Mom,” and I went into the bathroom and came out with her pink hairbrush and I brushed the back of her matted white hair, knowing that I was doing it for me and not for her because she didn’t care anymore. But I hadn’t yet caught up to her yet, and so I cared. I still cared about her hair.
Familiar territory
I took a spin with you and your mom reading this, except it was in Quebec, but it really was the same place. Every time I would go and visit my Dad I would have this weird pinching in my stomach, that is was shameful that my dad was there. But he liked it there. He liked sharing a room with a perfect stranger, he choose that over having his own room. For a few years we had the same conversation..every time..until the conversation stopped and we just started to sit there..saying nothing just being there, that was enough.
Thank you for sharing
Laura,
This is beautiful. I love how you show your feelings. It helps to know that we are not the only ones dealing with this particular situation. You are courageous in stating your doubts and fears. Very well written.
Thank you again for sharing. 🙂
Touching
Laura, what a touching tribute to your relationship. This line ‘a new umbilical cord had grown between us’ brought tears and memories of similar times with my mother. Beautifully written. Judy
Touch
What beautiful writing. I cried as I read this line…’new umbilical cord had grown between us’ it brought back memories of similar times with my mom. Thank you for writing this. Judy
Judy, thanks for this response. I’m sorry, but a lot of responses got lost in the back end of my site…and it has been a long time since you wrote this. Thanks for your generous response.
So Quiet
… and so moving. As I read this, I remember the 1000s of hours I spent with my brother doing similar hospital/care home stuff; I smile at some memories and tear at others. I am proud to witness (via your writings) the loving relationship you and your Mom have; it’s an inspiration to me. Loved your description of the fledgling umbilical cord that now holds you both together. I feel the journey you and your Mom are on; it resonates loudly and deeply with me.
Graceful Loving
Laura, I was moved by the love that is demonstrated in the piece. In the midst of a busy lifestyle juggling the tasks of motherhood, commitments to wife, and career, and taking care of your mother, you slow it all down and share a moment that captures a myriad of emotions with such grace and love. Thank you for sharing this.
Thank you so much.
Laure, this piece is so touching. I remember the struggle you had getting here. Acceptance is sadly part of the process, but the part that give you and her the serenity to move through this journey and let your love shine through. You have been gifted, although it may not seem like a gift now, of having the time to spend with your mother in the last part of her life. The new umbilical cord you are growing between you and her will be with you forever even after she is gone. It’s the one you will be able to tug on in times of sadness for her loss. It is also one you hope your children will grow between them and you when they realize the time we have on earth with the ones we love is limited.
I think I was most struck by the scene you witnessed in the long-term care facility that resembled a pre-school. I recently decided to go to a water aerobics class for seniors and was appalled and embarrassed when the group’s leader gave us instructions to skip in the water and began singing Skip to My Lou. And when she had us do side bends and had sing “I’m a Little Tea Pot.” Why does this culture think we have entered into our second childhood just because we are getting older. Such lack of respect for all the experience and wisdom we have acquired from living so long.
Thank you so much for sharing such loving, honest and intimate feelings that you are having going through this experience of caring for an aging parent. It gives me hope that I, too, will be treated with as much love and understanding as I get older as you have developed for your mother.
Life’s Journeys
Laura, I love every word that you write about your relationship with your mom. I cant wait for the book! 🙂