Leave The Flowers
It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year since Mom came across the country, much like Mary Poppins with her carpet bag. She has settled in nicely, and according to her care staff, everyone likes her....... accept Jean.....she and Jean do not get along. They sit together in the small kitchenette for residents and squabble, which usually ends with mom calling Jean a piece of shit, something she can do with great commitment, and stomps off to her room. She comes back out within a minute or two though, goes back to the table with a smile and wishes her a good morning, or evening, whatever, the point is, it’s gone. Whatever garnered the name calling is over because, well, this is a memory care center and it can occasionally have its advantages. I don’t think Jean quite forgets though. As mom was going on to me yesterday Jean strolls by and leans in to whisper “whatever information she gives you just ignore it, she has dementia”......Thanks Jean.
Mom decides it might be best for us to relocate to another room. Jean lingers not far behind asking if we are family and commenting on how wonderful that is. “You just don’t see it anymore.”
Since it is Halloween we are waiting on the arrival of children who are going to trick or treat throughout the decorated halls and scoop up candy bags that the residence have made for them. I decided it would be fun to have a bit of a costume available for mom to wear, so I brought a witch hat.....yes, I did it on purpose. It made me laugh as I suddenly felt vindicated for all the times mom scared me when I was a kid. Mom by the way, loved it.
As the kids arrived an old woman with a doll came and sat with us. She talked about her baby and how tired the child was from all the moving around. She cuddled that baby and showed us the cozy outfit she had picked out for her that day. Then she turned around and proceeded to carefully feed her a cup of actual hot cocoa. As you can imagine that did not go well for the tired infant and they left to clean up the porcelain faced cherub that was actually now even more haunting than a Chuckie doll. My daughter? She instinctively was already on the other side of the room. Some things are just .........actually spooky.
While the woman was gone tending to the needs of her doll another woman quietly came to join our group but was ceremoniously rejected and sent to another table, Jean’s table. Jean let her know she could not sit there either. She should go somewhere else. We watched in awe as the woman scoffed and nonchalantly picked up the flowers from the center of the table and went to make her exit. Jean was quick, “NOT the flowers, just you......... Leave the flowers.” Seeing the coast was clear of horror movie main characters my daughter returns to the table trying not to giggle.
“Take the gun, leave the cannoli”
I decided to make my exit to snoop Mom’s room. I usually have to reset things that have been “stolen by the staff.” It takes me about 15 minutes to hunt up her hearing aids, hair brush, toothpaste, toilet paper and glasses from one of the numerous places she hides them. I guess at this point hearing what the other ladies are actually saying is about as essential as a bicycle. She isn’t really listening anyway. She lives happily in her memories of the farm, a farm without pigs, loaded with chickens, and a 13 room farm house. She goes on about how her older brother carries her on his shoulder and she is just tiny enough to get in the coop and get all those chicken eggs. At this point in the story Jean will lean in or across her table and let us know that mom is full of shit............... And we have come full circle.
I have to be honest. There is really only one moment of these visits that I treasure. It is the moment I arrive and Mom see’s me. Her whole face lights up. She hugs me tight and says “Oh Suz, I just love you so much.” That is the moment I have with my Mom, that glimpse when I am her daughter and we are together again. It is worth it. Soon enough we all fade into other people who fit the story of her mind. She is still happy to host the party though, regaling anyone who will listen with those tales of a life gone by. It is my humble observation that even in this often junior varsity locker room of women, it is not my Mom or Jean that is full of shit. It is this disease.
So it goes, we continue our wait, Mom’s tiny doll suitcase packed. (This is where most of her most important items are usually hiding out. That or under her pillow with cookies she has squirreled away for a rainy day or midnight snack.) She is ready and I am sure she will happily leave the flowers.