It is no surprise the story ends up with me being on my own. I went to visit my mother on Monday. My eyes skimmed the room like a parent picking up a toddler from daycare, I barely caught sight of her. She was slumped over in her wheelchair, alone at a table with breakfast laid out before her. When I approached her, I noticed a half piece of sausage in her clutch. She seemed to be sleeping but it was 9 am so I figured there was no harm in waking her.
She wasn’t asleep though; it was more of a closed down state. When I spoke to her, she very slowly nodded her head. No words and no eyes opening; just her slumped body and her head barely nodding yes.
I remove the half eaten sausage from her fingers. I placed her hand on her lap. I turn my chair to be next to her wheelchair and threw my arm around her. I sat next to her watching others finish their breakfast and move along with the day. I tried to get her to respond: to look at me or even groan in delight from a hug, but there was only a barely noticeable nod almost as if her head was bobbing from momentum.
So I rubbed her back and squeezed her opposite shoulder. I sat there like it was a park bench on a beautiful day, looking out across the expense. My heart was breaking, my eyes tearing, all the while not surprised by this result. I kept reasoning, “This the natural progression of dementia. The goal is to help her let go.” Perhaps I had to let go too.
Sam came over and I told him, “I think she’s done eating.” He looked over the food in front of her, barely touched, and volunteered that, “She ate half of her oatmeal.” Now I nodded slightly.
“She seems mostly unresponsive today,” I said. He looked her over with his wise and calm demeanor and told me she was not like that yesterday. Somehow that lighted my mood. I smiled and nodded once again.
Another resident inmate stopped by to say hello. Most people there are curious about visitors and willing to talk; I have to admit I’m drawn to that part of the whole experience. We had a slightly nonsensical conversation. She said she would let me and my mom get back to it, as if she felt she was interrupting our conversation. I always find it strange how the muscle memory of manners sticks around while reality falls away.
My mood was low. My eyes were watery. I hugged my mom goodbye. I pushed my cheek against her messy, silver hair - longer than I have ever seen it in all my years. I told her I would check back in later in the week. I cried on the drive home.