Greeting

After our standard greeting of a long hug and me saying, “I love you,” and Mom parroting my words (which happens often now), Mom leads me to the somewhat dingy brown love seat in the common area. I really try not to be a germaphobe, and it takes so, so much effort, especially on upholstered furniture, where residents may have had accidents. “It’s okay,” I remind myself. “There are more important things. Being here with Mom is what is important. Everything can be washed.”

I sit down, and help her into her spot beside me. She snuggles close and lays her head on my shoulder. I put one arm behind her and pull her close. With my other hand, I stroke her bare arm, shocked she isn’t in layers of clothes, as she always complains she is cold. Her skin has always been so soft. It’s becoming thinner and thinner, and age spots are becoming more prominent. The age spots have a different texture, almost sand papery. My fingers catch on them a little as I rub my hand over them. This fascinates me. 

Mom mumbles as she lays on my shoulder. Every so often I hear what might be a word and I repeat it. Mom agrees and keeps on. It’s a cold, gray day outside. This feels right, to be inside, on a love seat, snuggled close together. 

Her beau, shuffling through the room, calls me by his daughter’s name, Sherry. At first, I don’t respond, and he keeps yelling til I say, “Hi there, whatcha need?” He wants to know what we’re doing, sitting there, hugging each other. I tell him we’re just talking. He thinks for a moment, then satisfied, he saunters away. 

Another resident leans over a table in the corner. Perhaps he worked in the government. Perhaps he was a spy. Perhaps he has other voices in his head. Perhaps all of that. He runs his fingers over the grain of the table and says that it’s important that we keep watch. We can’t let them in. He asks if we’re being careful. I assure him we are. 

I attempt to take a selfie of me and Mom every time we’re together. Lately, though, when Mom sees the phone, she thinks I’m trying to show her something, and she reaches to pull the phone closer so that she can see. I have a lot of pictures similar to this on my camera roll.

Bathroom 

Mom tells me she needs to go to the bathroom. We walk the twenty steps to her room and I help her into the bathroom and slide the bathroom door closed. She positions the trash can behind her as though she’s going to sit on it. “Hey Momma, let’s go this way,” and I guide her gently towards the toilet. “Oh, yes.” She stands there, in front of the toilet. I ask her if she needs to use the bathroom and she says yes. I help her pull down her corduroy pants, and start to pull down the adult diapers that she now wears. She smacks my hands and says, “No!” I step back and ask her if she needs to use the bathroom, and she says yes as she pulls up her corduroy pants. She gets the elastic waistband of her pants situated just so, then tells me she’s done. Sometimes yes means yes, and sometimes yes means no. There isn’t rhyme or reason to when the meaning is true, and when it’s the opposite. 

Nap

Mom lets out a large yawn. “Are you tired?” She nods and we walk to her bed. I’m wondering if this nod means yes, or if this nod means no. “Would you like to lay down?” “Yes,” she says as she tries to pry off her tennis shoes, unsuccessfully. As she sits on the bed, I kneel down to untie her double knotted shoelaces. She crosses one leg over the other and kicks me in the head. “Sorry!” I laugh and continue to take off her shoes. When I stand up, she hugs me tightly around my waist, and says, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” “Hey, Momma. It’s okay. It’s okay.” She leans backwards and skooches further onto the bed. She turns to one side and curls up. Okay. So yes meant yes this time. I crawl onto the bed behind her and put my arm over her. She holds onto it tightly with both hands. Pretty soon I can hear her breath, in a steady rhythm, in and out. In and… Oh goodness. Has she stopped breathing? And out… I continue to listen to her breathing, and then hear her snore. She shifts a bit and I realize it is my snore, not hers. I change my breathing so as not to disturb her. 

Dinner

I sit next to her at the table, in yet another upholstered chair, overlooking the stains and refusing to think about what they might be. The angel on staff places a plate in front of Mom. Cream of broccoli soup in a small bowl, and a meat and cheese sandwich, cut into triangles (the proper way to cut a sandwich), not rectangles. Mom picks up the bowl of soup, and attempts to pour it onto her plate. I gently tip her hand back so that the soup won’t spill, and guide her to set the bowl on the table. I ask Mom if she’d like some soup. She nods, so I bring a spoonful to her lips, prepared for her to swat it away. She opens her mouth and eats it, and seems to like it. I continue feeding her spoonful by spoonful until she notices the sandwich. I pick it up and hand it to her, and she gingerly bites one point of the triangle. Then another point. I’m so happy to see her eating. There are so many days when she simply refuses. She eats an entire half of a sandwich. I give her another spoonful of soup. Once the chunks of broccoli are gone, she has no interest in the soup. She picks up the other half of the sandwich and I’m astonished. This is the most I’ve seen her eat in a month. She finishes the second half of the sandwich. I hug her and kiss her forehead. She is handed a fudge cookie, wrapped in plastic, for dessert. She can’t quite figure out how to pull back the plastic, so I pull it back halfway, so that her fingers won’t get sticky. After she eats the unwrapped half of the cookie, she puts the plastic wrapped portion in her mouth and sucks. I pull back a little more plastic so she can access the cookie. She uses her fingers to push the cookie into her mouth. She hates having sticky fingers, a trait she has passed on to me. As I watch, she dips her fingers into her cup of chocolate Ensure, then rubs her hands together as though she’s washing her hands. This makes her hands stickier, and she is growing agitated. I help her out of her chair and lead her to her bathroom, where we wash both of our hands under warm water, using an ample amount of soap. 

Bedtime

I help Mom into a nightgown and long underwear. We take off her shoes (again). She lays down on her side, facing me. She pats the bed, so I sit in the curve of her body. She wraps her arms around my waist. I stroke her long, silky, gray hair. Her eyes grow heavier and heavier. Each time I stop stroking her hair, her eyes strain to flutter open. So I continue, alternating with stroking the place where her eyebrows once were, remembering all the times I begged her to “play with my hair.” I love the feeling of someone running their hands through my hair, of brushing it, of braiding or twisting it. So many times she told me no, that she didn’t have time, or she was too busy. I love that I can give her this gift of comfort.