A Better Place

   When my mother first entered the nursing home and was so obviously dying, my sister and I went to see her every day. For about six months I put an extra 350-500 miles a week on the car, rushing from work to the nursing home, sometimes twice a day, not getting home until after dark every day. 

What Mom sees when she's lying in bed

   Michael felt helpless and lonely, and everything was just hell. I'd wake up weeping, go to sleep weeping, start weeping as soon as I turned off JFK and headed toward Dark Hollow. By Justin Matthews I'd get myself back in hand, by thinking about public safety.
    Never assume the people driving the other cars aren't weeping.

The Pilgrims are on the wall to her right

   
   Since her condition stabilized in March (thank you, palliative care), I visit her just three times a week ... most weeks. Some weeks I only make it twice. Every so often, Michael fills in. My sister or her husband is supposedly coming three other days a week, but they broke down in the stress of everything being hell and started getting respiratory infections. That seems to be clearing up now.
   And my nieces and nephew visit when they can work out transportation. 

   If all these people have anything in common (besides everything we have in common as relatives), it's that none of us wants to visit Mom. We talk about this. Once we get there, she's so cute, we're glad we went. But there's a dread that builds as visiting day rolls around, again and again. Is she going to remember me? Will there be some problem with her clothes — like, will she need more clothes? Is she going to keep asking to go home with us? Will she say only one sentence over and over for an hour or more? Are we going to have to come up with cheery things to say while we crouch in the hallway beside her chair? Will we need to brush her teeth? If we do, will it make her choke?

Loves George but foggy on Abe

   Monday she was asleep in bed with her mouth open, which typically means she won't wake up. But I didn't want to walk in and walk out, so I sat down to knit while she slept. Nobody was around, so also I sang at her quietly. I like sad ballads. She likes "How Much Is That Doggy in the Window." She surfaced during the second verse of "Doggy" and lay there looking pleased and calm, blinking at the ceiling.

 
   "How Much Is That Doggy" was the No. 1 pop tune in the nation the year she met my dad. 

   She didn't seem aware that I was there. But I went on singing and knitting, just enjoying being nearby.
   When the aides came in with the lift to move her from bed to her geri chair for supper, a blonde with  pixie-cut hair and sparkly earrings almost shouted, "Mrs. Loyall?" loudly, gleefully. 
    My immobile mother practically lifted off the bed and exclaimed with delight. "Oh helloooo! Are you married yet?" 
   The aide said no, but her wedding was coming up fast. She went on in a bantering tone about her dress and flowers, and Mom talked back and forth with her a little.

More George Washington

   In the bustle I slipped away, stopping just long enough to give Mom a peck on the forehead.
   
   My heart was so light on the drive home through Dark Hollow. It felt good to remember how eagerly she greeted that pretty young aide.

   She might know her caregivers better than she knows her children now. Maybe she has an easier time remembering them and their details. The aides are with her all day, every day. And they seem to like her, and they obviously like it when she talks to them. 

   She has buddies.