When I arrived at Friendship Haven Sunday morning, my mom was sitting in the cafeteria, staring benignly ahead--at nothing.
I had not seen her in six weeks. My sister had updated me on the subtle decline, but I was still taken aback to see a film of confusion over her eyes when I said "I'm Allison, your daughter, and I'm here to take you to church."
"All right," she said, accepting but aloof: I was a stranger.
I brought my mother's "good wool coat" from her room and buttoned it across her increasing midsection. For 93 years, she'd been trim. Over time she has shrunk to 5'2", but after nearly two years in memory care, she's now closing in on 170 pounds. She eats whatever is set before her, determined to prevent waste. We've asked the staff to monitor her portion size, but does it really matter? Only that it makes the one remaining button of her favorite coat hard to clasp.
Yes, we should maybe buy her a new coat. But she loves her red one, and changes rattle her. There is no way to win this fuzzy game we're playing.
By the time I had my mom in the car (no small feat), she seemed accepting that I was--if not specifically Allison her third daughter--at least a pleasant person willing to take her to church.
On our five-minute drive, I sifted for safe conversation and landed on poems. My mother, of course, said yes when I asked her if she'd like me to recite "Invictus." I then veered to Edna St. Vincent Millay (her favorite) and she chimed in, laughing. In these moments, she is her best self, pillowed in deep memory.
Lesson: Whatever it is you commit to memory--poems, Bible verses, the Lion King script--might someday bring you comfort--maybe even joy.
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My mother had several good moments during my visit. Four years ago, when she and my dad lived in my home through the first months of COVID, she was still writing in her journal and reading the dictionary. Now she no longer reads on her own, but on Sunday, I was happy simply to hear her read the Sunday school prayer aloud along with the class. I am watching the peeling away of her identity. Writing is gone. Reading independently is gone. Reading aloud is still there.
My sister had told me that Mom no longer stands up during the church service. So we stayed seated, holding hands. How subtly a mother's hand becomes the child's.
Our never-very-good voices scratched out the hymns. When the acolyte brought us communion, Mom was confused. I held her chin in one hand and tipped the small cup of grape juice to her lips. She was my baby bird.
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As we pulled away from the church parking lot, I made an effort to re-orient her by saying "This daughter is happy she could take her mother to church!" She responded with a laugh: "This mother is happy too!" Her flash of cognition delights--and stabs.
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We arrived back at Friendship Haven an hour before the noon meal would be served. I expected my mom to be tired, and I suggested she lie down before lunch.
"Should we look at some things?" she asked. In the moment, she wanted our time together to continue. In the moment, I did too. I also wanted to keep my place on life's treadmill and get home and take my nap and write lesson plans and make supper and read and go to bed and wake up and take a shower go to school...
So I told her I needed to get on the road.
"I won't see you for awhile," she said with teary eyes.
"I will come again soon," I said, my eyes matching hers.
"I love you, Mom," I said.
"I love you, sweetheart," she said.
It wasn't my name, but it was close enough.
Yes. Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
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