Who'da Thunk It?

Last Friday I made myself go visit my mother at her nursing home in Berkeley, because I am determined to get over there twice a week.  It seems so minimal to me, given that she is 89, and there are a countable number of times I am going to get to be with her before that story is over.  Her story.  And my story of having her in my life.  I’m finally getting it that all the stories do end.  And it’s shocking every time, even when you know it’s coming.

I do kind of have to push myself to visit my mother, because it’s not particularly rewarding for me, most of the time.  She isn’t very communicative, and she’s often displeased with me for encouraging her to eat, or not straightening the tablecloth properly, or not understanding what she is trying to say when she does speak. 

This time she smiled and greeted me with “Oh Ruthie!  How did you get here?” I gave her the March issue of Our Daily Bread, a publication that has been around since I was a child – daily devotional thoughts that I used to think were insipid.  Now I love reading it with her because it’s nostalgic for me, it’s her world, and it makes her feel good.  It reinforces all her beliefs.  At this point, she can’t do any more damage with them, so all that’s left for them to do is comfort her, which is something I want very much.

This visit was not like most.  Nathalie, the Nursing Director, asked me if I wouldn’t mind doing the BE-ACTIV questionnaire with my mother.  She enjoyed being asked which activities she likes and dislikes. One item was “Getting or sending cards, letters,” and I prompted her with “You like getting cards from your sisters, don’t you?”  She looked frustrated and irritated and said, “But is it either/or?”  I laughed, and said, “You’re right, you might like getting them but not sending them.”  “Oh, I’m not like THAT!” she responded.  I was amazed at her astute assessment of the difficulty of answering that question the way it was posed, and her ability to communicate it to me.  She was having a good day.

The very things that used to drive me so crazy about her – like her absolute impenetrable certainty about whatever she believes to be true – I now find charming, because they are so characteristic of her, and I’m losing what there is left of her little by little.  She was a 4^th grade teacher for 32 years; she’s known for correcting anyone and everyone about everything.  At her husband Will’s graveside service last February, the pastor accidentally referred to him as “William,” and she piped up, “It’s Wilford!”  This could have happened even before she got dementia.  My step-sister Linda added her own comment: “Mary gotcha, pastor!”  

Of course she can still trigger a reaction in me when I am angrily corrected, but I’ve become really good at staying completely calm when she gets upset.  I just love her unconditionally.  You’d have to know her and know me to know how remarkable that is.

“Who’da thunk it?” as she would say.  Her expressions now seem so colorful and entertaining.  You can imagine what I used to think of them.