“Oh there you are Netti!” Mom exclaimed as she opened one eye. She was seated on a floral chaise, one arm
resting on a footstool turned armrest placed nearby. That had become her favorite piece of
furniture as of late, but never used the stool to prop up her feet.
Her use
of “Netti” threw me off, reminded me of those years when I would call
from Oregon or Cincinnati, and she would answer the phone, “Oh Netti, I knew it was you.” She sat straight up and
immediately her eyes were drawn to my feet, in particular, my blue running
shoes. They were a neon blue – think North Carolina with a little Oregon swag to them.
“Hey, what are you doing with
those blue shoes?” She questioned me. I shrugged.
“They’re my running shoes Mom, I was a runner, ran track, jumping
over hurdles, remember all those times I fell…” A part of her connected to that time, as a
smile crossed her face in the same instant as the sun shone through the window.
“All those times I fell.” We chuckled
together on that one.
“C'mon lets get up and go walk
around,” I told her. She sighed, her trademark for quit telling me what to do, but I will
probably listen to you anyhow.
We wandered
from her hallway out into the main gathering space. Jerry and Richard were actively engaging in a
conversation that went like this - Jerry: "Well, if you at run this, does
not you tell look back," and Richard mumbling over Jerry, "Most
people know how to work airplanes, they make them ride...” But truly, the men appeared to be battling it out in
Congress over the budget.
Mom continued
to point out one of the caregivers Q., who had rolled her hair into a bun. Mom exclaimed, “Well look at that, she thinks
she is all high and mighty, with her thing up like that.” It took some doing, but I convinced Mom all the young
girls were wearing buns, and reminded her it was once her style too, perhaps
not that I witnessed, but a style in her day for sure.
These
moments I had catalogued before, but I called them B.D. moments, before Dad’s death. The occurrences were not only regular, but entertaining,
as well as challenging, because Mom was thinking, and was stating aloud what it
was she was thinking. She too was engaged.
But the circumstances of her life dictated she would fall into a state
of grief that was difficult to understand and explain to someone who had
Alzheimer's, and even more onerous to explain to one who regularly pushed her
own emotions below the surface for the sake of others.
And so
she progressed through his death, her moves, the addition and removal of
medications, the holidays. The rate of
suicides and deaths among those who experienced grief always rose post holiday
season. I held my breath.
We
celebrated her birthday in January at a restaurant where she mistook the
waiter, dressed head to toe in black, for a priest, then laughed when Mark
suggested, the waiter was there to serve us bread and wine.
Mom came
to my house to celebrate Mardi Gras, sans all the kids but one, with our
tradition of gumbo, muffuletta and king cake.
Mom even picked the cake piece with the baby in it, and we will hold her
to buying the cake for next year.
She
followed along in conversations with my in-laws, and they remarked, how much
mom was involved, interested in the flow.
Grief
comes in waves for all of us, including those with Alzheimer's. Mom could still be stuck in an angry place,
but her surroundings have offered her a change of pace, constant social contact
and a weekly hair appointment, seriously, her hair was always important. And as
such, constant attention to her needs and responding to her want of hugs have also
helped.
These are
small moments between the long hours when loving someone with Alzheimer's. I am
not there to care for her, but even the hour or two I spend when visiting her or
she with me, brings a heightened awareness that her awareness could all be gone
again, so easily, and not even with her death, but with her disease.
On our
walk, we came across a chaplain who visited every other week, to meet with
residents, and hold a service of sorts in the afternoon, following lunch when
the residents were more alert.
“I love your having your Mom
with us.”
I didn't
know who he was, or why he had spent time with Mom.
“I'm a chaplain,” he explained, telling me about his service and how Mom
loves to sing church songs. “Oh yes,” I responded. “And Frank Sinatra.”
He turned
to Mom, “So you love Frank?”
She
grinned ear to ear. “She worships at the altar of the Good Lord and Ole Blue
Eyes,” I noted, then left him to finish his meeting
and gently tugged Mom away.
We sat
ourselves outside of Boathouse Cove where Mom loved the white wicker furniture
in that courtyard, either reminding her of the glamour of Cape Cod, or the
cleanliness with which the bright furniture shone.
We
positioned ourselves opposite of each other. I had let her hold my music player,
listening to Sinatra. She sang along, “Nice and Easy
does it…” She forgot to repeat the
phrase several times and immediately added, “every time.”
She rose
to dance with me then sat down sighing, tired again. I put the earbuds in her ear, so she could
listen more clearly to the music.
“Mom which song is it?” I asked.
She
answered, “Come fly with me..,.” then added, “with your blue shoes on....” She threw her head
back to laugh and laugh and laugh. So
hard she could have slid off the plastic cushion on the chair.
“Mom, you are making no sense.”
Pleased
even more so, she answered, “Oh, I know.”
And I
believed her.
She rose
up to wander towards the health office, where the nurses met, and poked her
head in, “Umm. Hi, what's going on here?” In the same tone
she used to check in on kids when we were younger.
This
scene was repeated often in the short time I was there. She was curious, she was amused, she had a
life outside of anything I knew of, including the singing service, and teasing
the girls who were wearing buns in their hair.
When I
was younger, I recall my parents muddling through marital, financial and
parental struggles. When I didn't want my parents to consume their energies on
my doings, I would just tell my mom, “Don't worry about it.”
In some
ways, I removed from her the ability to be my mother, for me to be her daughter.
Even these past many months, I had felt the parental one, overseeing her care.
But for
the first time in two or three years, I wasn’t worried about “it”. I felt refreshed to simply be her daughter,
to be Netti, and bask in the beauty
that was my mom.
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