Changes in Latitudes

Nothing remains quite the same. Mom’s condition worsens with each passing week. These days it’s a toss up whether she’ll know me or not. In the afternoons, after lunch, they lay her down to take pressure off her behind – they’ve had to adapt their care to her changing needs. She cannot move her body anymore, can’t voluntarily move her legs or her feet – though they tend to twitch a lot.

I arrive today after lunch and she’s resting, her eyes are closed. I lean over and say Hi Mom, how are you? She opens her eyes but there is no recognition there. She is always now looking to the left, as if she sees something no one else can see. She meets my eyes briefly then looks off. Nothing in her face changes, no crinkling of her eyes, not a glimmer of her mouth turning up in a smile. I know that she doesn’t know who I am. But I say “I’m so glad to see you” and I smile and reach for her hand. I ask her if she wants to go outside for awhile and she manages a yes. The ladies come in to dress her and put her in the wheelchair while I wait outside in the hall. I can’t bear to see her inaction in action – I can’t bear to see her so terribly helpless that she has no say in what anyone does to her now.

Once she’s ready we head outside for the sunshine and the wind of a 80 degree North Texas afternoon. We walk and I talk to her, of things she may or may not understand. I have no way of knowing if she comprehends what I say. We go around the building and I remark on the snowy white buds on the trees and how beautiful they are. They’re gorgeous, aren’t they Mom? I say. She doesn’t respond. We stop by my new car and I say “look Mom, look at my car – isn’t is beautiful?” She makes a sound I can’t comprehend but I’ll pretend she’s saying yes, yes it is beautiful. I kneel down next to her and stroke her hair and say “are you glad to see me?” She says yes, I think. I say do you know me? Am I Julie, your daughter? She looks at me but there isn’t anything there. I wish I knew what she is thinking, does she think at all? How would anyone know?

I choose to believe she understands me at least. I choose to believe she’s there somewhere, but I do wonder if I she knows when I am NOT there. Like last Friday, when she recognized me and smiled hugely and listened to me talk – when I said I’d be back soon – did she know that I meant it? And now, when I come back and she doesn’t remember me – will she know later that I was there? Will she wish I was there? Will she miss me? Or does she truly live only in the moment?

I stay about an hour, first trying Willie Nelson songs, then switching to Jimmy Buffett. Today nothing captures her memory, nothing makes her react. I sing anyway and hope she’s not completely put off by my voice. Max is out there with us, and I worry about him. I see my Dad in him – old and weak, but mentally still sound. I hope he has plenty of visitors. We chat for a minute, but then I let him enjoy the sunshine while I sing, badly, first Good Hearted Woman, then Highwaymen, then moving on to Cheeseburger in Paradise and Boat Drinks. I ask Mom if she remembers us going to New Orleans. There is a tiny spark there and I notice. I hope it means she does.

I can’t stay too long – it hurts my neck and back to lean forward so I’m close enough for her to see me and hold my hand. I am unsure if she’s actually holding my hand – it’s quite a grip – or if it’s just that her hands are turning inwards so forcefully that when I slip my hand in hers she simply can’t let go. It hurts my heart to watch this agonizing decline, but I can’t abandon her. I absolutely won’t. Even if I only stay an hour at a time, I’m going to keep coming as often as I can. I don’t want to regret anything when the time comes. I want to know that I did everything I could, everything I could do so she knew I loved her more than anything. Even if the time I’m there I could absolutely be getting a million other things done – there’s time for that later. There’s going to be time for me that she won’t have. So I sit and I stay as long as I can stand it. She can’t talk to me, and today she isn’t even looking at me, but I stay nonetheless.

Maybe next time she’ll know me. Maybe she won’t. But I’ll be there anyway.

Mom and I used to adore Jimmy Buffett. I might be terrible, but I’ll keep singing and remembering her there with me. Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, nothing remains quite the same. With all of our running and all of our cunning, if we couldn’t laugh we’d all go insane.