It’s a Sunday night and I’m in the bath. Her bathtub, in her room – in the house she lived in for only a year. Still, it has her essence – her clothes I can see in the closet, her bathrobe hanging from the hook by the tub, her shampoos and conditioner to turn frizzy hair straight. I use the last of the bottle of bubble bath – her favorite scents, vanilla and patchouli fill the room. I breathe in. I try to relax, I try to calm my troubled heart and head. After I get out of the bath I go in her closet and try to imagine her there, choosing her own clothes, her own shoes. I try to remember when she’d be in the bathroom with her coffee putting her makeup on and getting dressed, in the old house. When the doors were shut and she didn’t want anyone to interrupt her, much less help her.
Don’t think about the fact that she started to wear the same clothes day in and day out. That she stopped wearing pajamas. That she would put three or four shirts on one on top of the other. Don’t agonize over when you had to pack up some of her clothes and had to throw away so many of her pants and underwear due to stains. She was so proud. She would not want you to remember that. She would be mortified if she knew you had noticed. Don’t dwell on how you looked at the bras in the drawer and dismissed them. She wouldn’t wear them anyway. You considered the socks and decided against – just another slip and fall waiting to happen. Bare feet or shoes are best. She was never a fan of socks anyway.
I look at all the things in her bedroom and bathroom. These were her things. The stuff she picked out for her own and enjoyed. The ornamental birds, the tiny doll bench at the end of her bed, the yellow rose antiques she inherited from her mother. I can’t stand thinking that she will never see these things again. And if I took them to the place she’s at – I can’t call it her home – would she remember them? Would she look at them vaguely and say oh how nice! Or would she say oh! Yes, I remember this. I loved this.
When they call me through video conferencing, she is so happy to see me. But even so she can hardly figure out how to hold the phone so that I can see her face. A lot of times she puts her thumb over the picture, as if she is stroking it. As if she would stroke my hand if I were with her.
Because of COVID-19, I haven’t seen my mom in person in over two months. I haven’t held her hand or hugged her. She seems happy enough most of the time. A week or so ago she fell in her room and had to be sent out to the ER because she had split her lip and hit her head. I knew she would be terrified. The lovely ER nurse that answered the phone when I called told me “I know how hard this is for you. My story is different, but I have a story, too.” The ENT’s had made her aware that my mom has Alzheimer’s. I didn’t need to panic. She let me talk to my mom on the phone – twice. She got her a coke to drink when I told her it was her favorite thing. She thanked me for telling her. She kept my mom close to her and I am SO GRATEFUL. It seems so rare to come across such kindness, but I believe that one thing COVID-19 has done is to make us ALL more grateful to and for the nurses and doctors taking care of our loved ones. They may not have the same story, but they know your story is so personal and important to you. This nurse didn’t try to dismiss my feelings, she helped me process them. How many nurses do you know that have ever done that for you, in such a heartfelt, caring way? Her name was Gerri. I am exceedingly grateful that she was the one that was there, in that place, at that time.
Mom’s cut is healing, she no longer has a vivid red mark across her upper lip. She has a friend, John, that she was sitting with today and having a “wonderful time.” Those were her words. She could not tell me what she was actually doing, but the fact that she was enjoying herself was balm on my troubled soul. I miss her. They were having holiday cookies and just talking I was told by the Activities Director. The best caregiver I’ve known there, Seema, immediately took over taking care of my mom’s precious cat when I was no longer allowed in. I didn’t have to ask or worry about it. People step up, you know. People go above and beyond their call of duty. God has sent angels to watch over my mom while I can’t be there. Today was a dark day for me, for more reasons than my mom’s situation. But at my lowest point, when my heart was weeping, that call came through and I was able to see my mom’s smiling face. I can no longer tell her that I am upset, that I miss her, that I need her to comfort me. I don’t want to cause her anxiety so I don’t tell her about my colt that died, I don’t tell her that I often feel impotent as a parent. I don’t spill my rage and hurt onto her shoulders anymore. I don’t tell her that I never thought I’d have to raise my child alone, without her, and that it sucks.
Nobody listens like your mom listens. So I think I will tell her. I’ll go down past the pond and choose a paddock, choose a pony, and I’ll vent and weep and rage. And I’ll listen. I’ll listen to what she would have said, when she was able. I’ll feel her close by and I’ll be comforted by her touch that whispers like pony whiskers on my arm. And in the horse’s soft nicker and gentle nuzzle I’ll know who is listening.
I’m pretty sure she’ll be there.