The ones who have already gone
by mymothersbrain
John and his mom, Nina, in her room the week before Christmas
Her hair, which she once kept a short, neat blonde, is now gray. This particular evening it was freshly washed and brushed into a bob. Years ago, hair was a topic on which we could turn entire conversations, and I don’t believe that she would have ever worn hers this way. But now, so close to the end, there is only so much one can do.
We were at the memory care facility for an early holiday celebration, and John spoon-fed his mother her roast beef, sweet potatoes, green beans, salad and a cobbler with a bit of ice cream. For the most part, she barely looked at us. She just rubbed at some invisible spot on the table in front of her, occasionally landing a hand on her plate and dragging it toward her. But at one point, she suddenly turned to him and a look of surprise seemed to cross her face. She leaned toward him, the muscles of her face contracting as if about to speak, and I could almost see the thought: “Why, I know you!” She stared at him for a few long moments, and we hunched forward in anticipation. Would she speak? But all too soon, she went away. Again.
It’s sometimes difficult for me to be among her fellow residents, to see the confusion — “I can’t find my room,” – and the yearning, “Hi honey, I love you.” We reciprocate: “I’m sure we’ll find your room,” and “I love you, too, you look so pretty today.” It can be overwhelming; it can make me want to run.
After dinner, John rolled her into her room, positioned the wheelchair so that she was facing the Christmas tree and we sat there, the walls and ceiling illuminated only by the tiny lights of the tree. She used to love Christmas, delighting in putting gifts for others under the tree with tags that read “From Santa,” in her neat script. The moment was so rich with memories that briefly, I felt I could float on its surface without sinking into sadness, buoyed by the fact that at least, we were here, in the glow of tiny lights and supported by something bigger than ourselves: a recognition of our place in a long line of others who have already come and gone and carved a path for us to follow. Were they watching us? I think so, and I felt comforted. I ran my hand down the back of her head, smoothing the gray locks, and she leaned into my touch.
She’s not coming back, no matter how many times she may seem to recognize her son she’s not coming back, I thought. And it reminded me of so many others who aren’t coming back: the soldiers who did not return from Iraq, from Afghanistan; the men and women who left their homes for an hour to run an errand and never walked back through the door; the babies and children who were supposed to outlive parents and against all logic, did not; those who due to estrangement or long-held hurts remain beyond our reach; those of whom we’ve simply lost track; and those, like my mother and mother-in-law who are inching a steady path away from us and toward the ones who have already gone.
©text and photo, 2011 Beatriz Terrazas, all rights reserved.
My grandmother was always very particular about her hair and now she’s also wearing it (by default) in a style I doubt she would have chosen for herself so that line really resonated with me.
It’s so difficult, isn’t it?
Thank you for sharing your experiences through your blog. I’ve followed it for a long time and it’s been such a blessing. You and your family will be in my thoughts over the holidays.
Amanda, I recently asked my husband to pay close attention to my appearance if I should ever be unable to do so for myself. For some reason I had a moment of panic about that one thing; the thought of others seeing me in a way I never would have wished to be seen horrified me. Thank you for your comment, and for your good wishes. Hoping you have a blessed holiday season.
As Chip and I walked down the hall toward his mother’s room, a soft, elderly hand grasped my arm.
“I can’t find my room; can you help me find my room?” a voice at elbow asked. Sure, “I replied”, I began to push her wheel chair toward a large man, dressed in dark pinkish scrubs, unloading lunch trays for the approaching lunch time. “Oh that is Mrs. Smith”, he replied, “She lives at the end of this hall”. I pushed her toward her room, discussed with her, where she would eat her lunch and wondered how she could have pushed herself so far from her room. The helpers mainly ignored us, but finally another worker helped me find her room. There was a curtain separating the room, she shared with another woman. “Is this Mrs. Smith’s room?” I asked, the large disheveled, gray-haired woman in the room. “Yes”, she said. I wheeled Mrs. Smith into her side of the room and pulled back the curtain to allow some light on her side. A very well-groomed, lovely lady looked up, from her wheel chair, to thank me and then asked, “Who am I?” “Mrs. Smith”, I said. “No, who am I”, she came back at me. I answered the same and she asked again, “Who am I?” At this point I asked her roommate what her first name was. Her roommate directed me to the name on the door, since she didn’t know her first name. I quickly found her name; returned to confirm, “Your first name is Juanita”. “Oh, why am I here” she asked? At this point me voice reflected my understanding, “Mrs. Smith, you may have had a stroke”, I said. “What am I going to do”, she inquired. “Why, you are going to have a lovely lunch”, I answered. “No, what am I going to do,” she reacted with more emotion. “Mrs. Smith, you will enjoy your day in the best way you can, that is what we all do”, I responded delicately. “Ok”, she said as her lunch tray presented. “It was nice to meet you Mrs. Smith”, I said as I turned to leave. “Thank you for being nice to me”, she called out, as I exited. I replied, “My pleasure”….I headed down to my mother-in-law’s room to find my husband sitting beside her bed chatting. My mother-in-law was one of the most patient, kind, and moral ladies that have ever lived. She never lost herself, was always on it and could keep her thoughts together for the most part; yet, she suffered from COPD and heart failure. It was her body that failed her, not her mind. For the last five years, her mind was willing, her body was not. That is also a heartbreaking fate to witness. We lost her recently on December 9, 2011.
Donna, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please give Chip my condolences. I’m glad your mother-in-law never lost a sense of who she was. It has to be difficult either way — to know who you are and understand what you’re suffering, as well as to be frightened and not know why, or even know who you are. None of it is easy. I’m wishing peace on everyone who has lost a loved one recently. And by the way, I’m glad you spoke to your mother-in-law’s roommate. So many of us are afraid to speak to those in residential care; we’re just not comfortable. Thank you for making this particular woman feel a little bit better.
Thanks, We think about you and the lovely ladies that suffer such a sad existance on your watch . …sometimes leaving is easier than staying…..
You could not possibly have expressed this more perfectly . . . I too have “been there” — both with a close friend suffering brain damage and in a nursing home environment; subsequently, with my husband who suffered a different kind of brain disorder and went in and out of being “with it”. . . Those too-rare moments when they are truly themselves and then disappear back into that fog — you have really captured what it feels like to be on the other side of that . . .
Thank you for your kid words. Sending you good thoughts for the holiday season.
Beatriz
I devour your words like eating something I must but haven’t gotten the taste for it yet. I know this is what lies ahead for my mom. The road we don’t want to travel but will have to. To read of your journey brings an odd comfort of sorts. Maybe not comfort, but reality. You are leading with such grace and I thank you for that.
Debby, I wish I could meet and talk to every one of the folks who comment on this blog. We are all traveling down the same path though at different parts of the journey. Thank you for being there for me by acknowledging what I express. You have no idea how much it comforts me.
I meant to comment on the broken words post, but…my words were too broken. It is truly those painfully joyus moments when you glimps them somewhere deep inside. My mom for some reason always thinks I’m her niece when we are at church. One night she corrected someone who called me her daughter and said “No, she’s my niece” so while driving home I wanted to see if she was aware of who I was, so I said “Mom, am I your favorite daughter?” She looked at me and said “Yes but, you know you don’t have a sister!” There was that ray of my mom’s wit shining thru, fleeting but there. I wonder, without these glimpses, would it be easier, less painful? Could I make peace with the reality of this sooner without the reminders of what is lost? Aimless wondering as I have no way of knowing. My heart can never decide to rejoice or weep at these moments, sometimes I think I do both. Who knew this was even possible to evoke both of those strong emotions with a singular moment.
Daughter — is there any wrong way to feel at these times? I think not. We rejoice and weep at the same time because we are human and our emotions complex. I am so glad you were able to glimpse your mom’s wit just when you needed it most. I am heading across Texas this weekend to relieve my mom’s caregivers and I know it’s going to be a very tough road. Think of me …