Mom’s outfit and stance remind me of Paddington Bear. She wears an oversized white sweatshirt/jacket that hangs down to her mid-thighs. I can’t remember if it’s always been this large on her, or if she’s somehow shrunk since she bought it years ago. She’s taken to wearing her sunhat low across her eyes.
She was in this outfit, curled up in bed, when I arrived. She heard me enter the room, opened her eyes, smiled, and sleepily said, “I love you.” I stroked her long gray hair, and told her to rest. She sat up and said, “No, I’m ready to go!” I helped her put on her tennis shoes and we headed to the park. October is the most beautiful month. The skies are a palatable blue; the air just the right amount of chill; the birds noisily chirping in the tree tops; and the leaves orange and red and yellow and brown. As we began our walk, Mom uttered what she tells me every week. “No one has fed me in days. I’m so hungry.” (The words don’t come out this coherently, but this is the message she’s conveying). She says this, regardless if we’ve just finished a meal or a snack. She says this when we get in the car, leaving a restaurant. She believes she is hungry, so we spend much of our time seeking food. I tell her we’ll go to our favorite restaurant, Campfire Grill, after we finish our walk. She nods.
At Campfire Grill, I ask her if she’d like to eat inside or outside. She stares at me, then says, “Outside.” The hostess sits us near vines and flowers and herb gardens. The sun is shining brightly, almost blinding, and will soon drop behind the trees. Mom unsnaps her jacket. It looks as though she has a t-shirt hanging out from under her sweater. I lean forward to see what she’s wearing. She’s put her underwear on over her sweatpants. I had not noticed earlier, because her jacket hung so far down her legs. Inside, I feel a slight pang, knowing this marks another milestone. The confusion of what things are for; confusion about order; confusion about timing. She tells me she needs to use the restroom. I walk with her; she cannot follow directions anymore, but likes to hold my hand and walk slightly behind me.
I wonder for a moment if I should try to correct the layering of clothes, and decide against it. She likes to tuck her sweatpants into her socks, and correcting the order of clothes would mean taking shoes off, taking off the (outer) underwear, untucking sweatpants from socks, taking sweatpants off, putting on underwear, putting on sweatpants, tucking into socks, putting on shoes. It feels like a lot of effort for not much gain.
I stay in the roomy bathroom with her; this is now necessary since she’s forgotten how to flush the toilet and use the faucet. When she pulls her sweatpants down, I see she has underwear on both underneath, and on top of, her sweatpants. This small discovery makes me incredibly happy. She still understands underwear goes under clothes. She just decided to add an extra layer on the outside. She finishes her business and I help her pull up her pants, and help her step out of the underwear that is on the outside. I turn on the faucet, test to make sure the water isn’t too hot, and pump some liquid soap into her hands, rubbing her hands together under mine. We dry our hands on rough industrial brown paper towels then make our way back to our outside table.
I’ve ordered her a salad with grilled chicken, and she eats a few bites then says she’s full. I tell her we’ll get a to-go box, and she’s happy about this. She hates wasting food. She used to attempt to wrap anything and everything in a paper napkin, then stick in into a pocket or purse. Because of this, I usually have a Tupperware container in my purse so that we can package up leftovers, but today I’ve forgotten. The server brings us a compostable box, and I help Mom put the salad in it. She looks at me. “Did we already eat ice cream?” I smile. Her favorite thing. “Not yet, but they’re fixing it for you now.”
A bowl of plain vanilla ice cream arrives. Mom eats the whole thing, and scrapes the bowl. The server comes and asks if we need anything else. Mom tries to tell her how much she loves ice cream, and random words come out, with animated hand gestures. The servers are so kind to us.
We arrive back to her place, take our shoes off, and climb onto her bed, ready to watch a Hallmark Movie. Mom waves her hands, and stutters “outside” “pretty day” “ready.” I ask her if she’d like to go for a walk. “YES!” She says enthusiastically, as though challenging why I would suggest anything else.
We go back to the park. We walk by the pond. She stops and asks if we’ve already had ice cream. I tell her we have, and we can get some more if she’d like. “Oh, yes.” This time we go to the local ice cream parlor, where when the ice cream scooper sees us, she laughs and says, “Small cup of Oreo?” I laugh and say, “You know it!”
This routine brings me so much comfort. I know it won’t last forever. But I can treasure it while it does.