Mom
“She’s breathing quietly now,” Warren, my brother, says.
“Yes, but still a bit labored,” I answer.
We are here on a vigil at the Village Nursing Home in Fork Union, Virginia. Mom is in the final stages of her battle with dementia. Warren flew in from Texas three days ago when the final stages began. He’s ten years younger than I, and has aways been a calming, steady rock. He’s father to four children, two of his own, two acquired with marriage to his second wife, Judy. And he is one of the best I’ve ever known. Family is his top priority, a trait I admire, but never been able to emulate. My drive, which Mom called ambition, has always crept to the top, even though my conscience told me it was wrong. That choice sure hasn’t rewarded me with exceptional happiness or accomplishments. Quite the opposite. It’s often driven me into the ditch. Nevertheless, I keep digging.
Mom’s dementia obscured time and memory — hers and mine. I try to remember the good times, the times we enjoyed dinner, trips, games, laughter. A young geriatric doctor told Warren and me what to expect after we first saw the signs four years ago, the strange dreams, occasional erratic behavior, out of context stories from the past. That conversation triggered us to prepare contingency plans to move Mom from our family home on South Almond St. to the Orange Nursing Home, then eventually to the Village Home in Fork Union, to be within easy driving distance of me.
It was as if I was trying to catch Mom’s hand as she was drifting out to sea. She seemed farther away with each week, becoming gradually less coherent. Sometimes she recognized me, other times stared at my face only seeing a stranger. Mom is only twenty years older than I. Is this me in twenty years? And, every day visiting the nursing home seemed harder.
Aunt Ruth, who often felt closer to me than Mom, encouraged me, even pressured me to go every day. Ruth said, “She needs to see you.”
But I sat with Mom during every visit, trying to talk to her, feeding her, holding her hand, with almost no response. I wanted to cry every day, but no tear would come. I just froze to keep from melting.
The nursing home was modest to say the least — not highly rated, but some staff members poured their hearts out to the residents and relatives. One of the staff, Dorothy White, got through to Mom on a wavelength I could not duplicate. Dorothy, a woman from the local African American community, sang traditional hymns in a soft voice matched by a smile that could melt icebergs. Instead of dreading the ten-mile drive to Fork Union, I looked forward to Dorothy’s song of the day.
Dorothy has been in and out of Mom’s room on this last day, helping us work through our feelings. We think Mom has been suffering, but, yet, we don’t know. Did she feel any pain? What was she feeling? Did she know what was going on? Is it good or bad that her life is ending?
In a while, a few last labored breaths end. Warren and I stand there, not knowing what to say. Dorothy comes to the door and one of us tells her the news, as if she didn’t already know. Dorothy hugs us both. We continue to stand by the bed.
A short while later, Mr. Phillip Carter, the minister who serves the nursing home, and his wife, Mrs. Helen Carter join us in the room and hold Warren and me close, warm hugs from people who love us. Phillip is the pastor of an African American Church in Fluvanna County, Helen works tirelessly to help people in need around the countryside, driving people to the Doctor’s office for cancer treatment, advising on child care, and being a friend.
We talk quietly and the Carter’s offer a prayer as we all hold hands. Warren and I are not alone, love surrounds us.
Dementia destroys the memory of its immediate victim, but it also destroys the memory about the person in the minds of the loved ones. How do family members recall all the good times before the downward slide began when every minute of recent times has been a struggle?
Warren and I prepared a display of pictures and mementoes from Mom’s younger days to help us remember the dedicated young woman who cared so much for her family. A person who preferred a quiet life, but stepped up with courage to every challenge she faced. From the personal diaries from ages fifteen and sixteen she left us, we discovered a vivacious young woman, though growing up in a dispersed, rural area, had an early life rich in close relationships with family and friends, active in church and social events. A young person who loved dancing. Those diaries helped Warren and me recover our real mother.
This is another story from my memoir, “Hand on the Shoulder: Finding Freedom in the Confluence of Love and Career.” (see Amazon) This brings back painful memories, but it reminds me of people who came with love and comfort. This is in honor of them.
Grant
