The Measure of a
Mother’s Time
I pause outside of "Ruth's" door. The sun is cutting through her window shades, engraving lines of
lights across her already stern face.
"Ruth" sits in a
wheelchair now. When I first met "Ruth" she had been walking, though with a
wobble. Then, she transitioned to a
walker. And now, a wheelchair, and not the comfortable kind.
The condition of the
residents here is how I measure my mother’s time.
The ones that have
left. Rosemary, who passed way. Peyton with her dog, whose family
transitioned her elsewhere.
Those still here
whom I wish the universe would offer a little more grace and take swiftly.
Families that come
and go. The families that never come at all. The loved ones that hardly ever
leave.
This is how I count
days with my mother at her care come, over these past three years.
My time slows once inside her residence, as I easily adapt to a different stride. Between the gaps in activity, I observe how my mother’s hairline closely resembles mine. We share cowlicks and thinness. I count the ways in which we are similar, ways in which I never would have admitted to, as a young woman in my twenties. But my mother’s old age, and mine, has given me this gift to declare.
I grasp at her
hands and note her slender her fingers, long nails she used to shape and polish
before her night out on Saturdays with my father. Her extremities are unlike
mine. I add up the ways in which we differ, and there were so many I used to bragged
about in our past.
There have been days
of endless wondering about my mother’s condition and countless taunts from her
about my hair or shoes. There have been multitudes of moments we celebrated
(fresh peace juice dripping down her chin). There have been a sequence of small
stuff that I sweated, waiting, for her, or me, to change.
I have whispered incalculable
confessions: Mom, you were right. Wearing
a V-neck shirt makes you appear thinner and taller. Still water runs deep. The best way to pick a husband is to watch
how he treats his mother. And battled with her on a few other fronts. Mom, spit that out, its chicken grease.Mom, running track was not going to make my
thighs thicker, they were going to be thicker anyhow. See photos of your own mother for proof.
I have heard my
mother tell another resident, who had been cursed with an endless blank stare,
“Now don't you start that with me,” and have had to scurry Mom away in a
another direction before the woman could pull at Mom’s finger. I have smiled at Mom’s simple acts of beauty,
as she caresses the face of another resident with gray, tired eyes.
I have survived
tornado and fire drills amidst 12 women plus caregivers, with obstacles such as
wheelchairs and walkers squeezed in the laundry or shower rooms, explaining
over and again why so many of us were crammed into a tiny space. “When you were
younger in school, your school always had fire drills. This is like that.” “Oh,” they sigh, with slight reminiscence.
Then they ask, “why are we here,” once more.
I count the
caregivers that have come and stayed. They have been the dedicated
majority. Each one adores Mom's smile. She
will casually smooth her hand across their brown or tanned arms and repeat back
whatever phrase they have uttered to her.
“Jean, the Bean,” they say.
“Jean, the Bean,” she says back. It’s a melodic call and response.
I tally up how
babies can make her day, either prodigy of visitors or residents, but
especially Prince George and Princess Charlotte, who grace the cover of every
other People magazine I carry in for Mom to read. I tally up too, the other People magazine covers,
as a way to measure time, Pope Francis, Leslie Gore, B.B. King, Omar Sharif.
I rely on the fact Mom
still mentions the silver vent hood atop the roof, and stops to admire the pink
and green beech tree. She is want to
point out each garden stone with pebbled glass missing, assigning the stone a
number, then counts ones that are not present.
We have moved on
from listening to strictly Sinatra. With so many music apps on my iPhone, I can
mix up the playlist to include Nina Simone or Dean Martin, Bette littler or
Louie Prima, and keep track of the names that cause her to respond.
Mom wants to be
held more. She grabs on to me longer when we hug. I count her hugs, and the number
of seconds in which they last – all day if I let them. She nestles her face
into the crook of my neck, appreciating the sense of closeness. A feeling that
is three years gone for her. Sometimes,
she still pats me on the back or backside, like she did when I was five.
Recently, the nurse
noted Mom needed an annual check-up with a doctor. I decided to switch to the in-house doctor at
that point, to reduce the challenge of moving Mom from point A to point B when
seeing her original doctor, Dr. Graff.
The in-house doctor
phoned one day to jot down Mom’s medical history. “About how long ago did she develop
dementia,” he inquired.
Her timeline eludes
me. I used to recite actual dates and times for when I noticed the occurrences.
When did I know? When she balked at changing clothes, taking a bath or
listening.
I gave him a
generic answer. “About five years ago.”
But I have relinquished any formal answer to Mom’s calendar, the one where she dutifully kept religions holidays, birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones living and deceased, hair and dental appointments for five kids. She didn’t need Google Calendar, then or now. Her life is no longer measured in time slots or a stretch of days, but in human interactions.
I have spent more
time with her these past three years, than in some entire decades of my younger
years. And yet, it’s hard to imagine, I still have days where I depart from
Mom’s care home in tears, usually because our day together was near-magical, or
that she wanted to hold tight and not let go. She has been a near-perfect muse, and I have
only gratitude for the immeasurable amount of words it has taken to capture her
essence.
A week ago, I
received a call from Mom’s care home. “Your mom had another seizure.”
“I’ll be right in.”
So, throughout the
week, along with nurses and staff, I waited and counted and forced her to
drink water or Gatorade or anything. She was also diagnosed with a UTI, and in the
midst of X-rays due to complaints about her back, the radiologist discovered
some arthritis in her back.
We managed to keep
her out of the hospital, and she responded slowly, her gait unsteadied and
present mind still obscured.
But her recent
situation challenged me back into the space of unknowing. If death had slipped
from the subtle grasp of life Mom held on to, I would have sent her off with my
blessing. She was already filled with peace, nothing left to add.
Until today, when an
arrow traveled through my heart as she pushed a strand of hair behind my ear
while I hugged her. Count one more day
I wanted her back.
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