An Unexpected Gift
My mother shuffled into the room, leaning on the arm of a young woman whose name I didn’t know; her name tag was facing the wrong way, thanks to hustle and bustle of the morning, no doubt. I like to thank the staff by name when they bring my mother, who has dementia, down for a visit, and I know quite a few of them by now. But there are so many I haven’t gotten to know because they are new or haven’t been assigned to her on the days I visit.
“Here you go, Mama. I’ll be back to get you after your visit. Have a nice time with your son.”
The Hispanic workers at the rest home often call my mother “Mama.” They say it like they are speaking to their own mother. I’m touched by their kindness and patience. So many of their charges can be difficult, even mean, my mother not least among them.
I took her by the arm and led her to a chair at one of the round tables in the room, turning her toward a copy of Monet’s Water Lilies. Someone has annoyingly glued a three-dimensional frog to the painting—to amuse the patrons, I imagine—but my mother always comments on how pretty the picture is, frog or no frog. Facing the wall keeps her from seeing the cars parked outside the windows and saves us an endless repetition of questions about which one is mine. It means we can talk about what’s happening in the family and reminisce about old times. Usually I’m the one telling the stories and updating her on the family, while she responds with disjointed stories of her own.
At first, my mother’s decline into incoherence was hard to bear. She always had a good memory, and she was a great storyteller. She loved reminiscing about growing up in Oklahoma and her life with my father and us kids as we grew up in New England. But, over time, I’ve found these conversations to be more and more comforting. Who cares if she mixes up names and repeatedly asks how my father, over two decades gone from this world, is doing and if he’s finally stopped drinking? The real gift is that we can still connect. We can still enjoy the warmth of just being together. Talking with her now is a bit like a dream, but I’m starting to believe that life, in many ways, is a dream best shared while drifting on the gentle currents that lead us toward that greater ocean.
