Tales from Berkeley Pines

Last night I went to the Family Support Group at Berkeley Pines Care Center, the nursing home where my mother is living.  It’s a once-a-month opportunity to talk with other people who are going through the same kinds of things I am.  For example, one woman told a sweet story of looking with her mother at a double-framed picture of her dad in a suit in one photo and in his fishing outfit in the other.  “Those are my husbands,” said her mother. 

Before the meeting I visited with my mother.  It was one of her good days, or at least one of our good visits.  Since we were communicating better than usual, on an impulse I asked her, “Do you like it when I visit you?”  “Oh, yes,” she said, with a smile.  “You’re my special sister.”  I let it go, of course, and didn’t make the connection until my husband pointed out, “That’s like your thing with Lois and Sarah.”

Among the six family members who attended the meeting, two were sisters.  I realized afterwards that I had been watching how they interacted.  They are very different in looks, style and personality, but they appear to have a relationship I could envy.  I might be seeing them through the proverbial rose-tinted glasses, I know, because another woman talked about how some of her siblings were helpful and some were very problematic.  Apparently, when you are caring for an elderly parent, having siblings is not always a benefit.

One of the two sisters comes to visit her mother once or twice a week, and the other one only once a month, because she lives farther away.  “That’s my excuse,” she admitted.  She was quite frank about why she doesn’t like to visit even though she has a nice time with her mother, joking around with her and making her laugh.  She feels her mother doesn’t want to be there, and she understands, because she wouldn’t want to be there herself.  “Who would choose to live in a place where it’s noisy, you room with a stranger, you can’t get away from other people to be by yourself, and you’re woken up to be asked if you want to use the bathroom?”

This woman told us that her mother, who is 95, barely remembers her husband who died 30 years ago.  She has a hard time recognizing people in the family who look different from her image of them because they have grown up since her series of strokes some years ago.  She can’t recognize herself in pictures, because she thinks she is 87 and imagines herself the way she was in her 60s.  “When I dream, I’m never old,” she says. 

On my way out I stopped to say hello to Juanita.  Every time I visit her now, she starts out nice and friendly, and then she gets all squinty-eyed and says in a challenging tone, “Are you the one who wouldn’t tell me your name?”  I admit I am, I apologize again.  “I was stupid that day, I didn’t understand,” I said last night.  “I don’t understand things a lot of days,” was her response.  “Of course I forgive you.”