It's a beautiful day. Just a hint of a warm up and blue skies to come. . . and the lilacs . . . they smell heavenly. I think, maybe, if I don't say it too loudly, spring is finally here.
It is difficult to believe it was just a year ago Mom was still living with us. And it's funny how one can look back and forget the unpleasant parts and remember only the good. I suppose that is as it should be.
When Mom first moved in with us, I had this dreadful, sinking feeling of being trapped. And lets be honest. I was. If Mom was in her bedroom putting pin curls in her hair and I slipped into the bathroom she would have a panic attack. I would hear Mom calling out, "Where is she? Where is she?" It would do no good to yell after her as she could not hear a thing. It also did no good to tell her where I was going before hand as she would forget as soon as she got busy with something else. I would hear the front door slam and I knew she was heading out in the yard to look for me. And I would run out of the bathroom pulling my my pants as I ran, yelling, "I'm here Mom. I'm right here."
I would find Mom in the driveway, spinning around looking for me, a look of shear terror in her eyes.
"Mom, I've told you I will never go anywhere without you. Remember?" Of course she didn't remember. Why did I bother asking? It was a scene that played over and over again.
But we had a routine. And I kind of miss that.
Up in the morning, take our granddaughter to school, out for coffee at her favorite coffee spot -- Golden Brown Bakery. Home. Pretend to work in the garden. Mom could get on her knees and weed with the best of them, but at 90 she could not work more than 20 minutes at a stretch -- and King and I tend 22 raised flower and herb beds in addition to three large vegetable gardens -- so weeding with Mom was slow going. I made her quit long before she would have given up. I did not want to be the one to have to tell my sisters I killed Mom by making her weed the garden.
After making an attempt at weeding we would head back into the house to fix lunch for "the man," (which is what she calls all of our husbands).
I suppose it is the promise of spring finally arriving that made me remember these little things. It was our routine. It's what we did.
We spent a lot of time riding through the woods in the golf cart. Afternoon would come and I'd try to get Mom to sit and relax a little. But she would get antsy so I'd load her back into the car and we'd drive past the lighthouse or get an ice cream cone.
It became difficult to watch Mom in the kitchen. Cooking -- something she had done all her life -- became foreign to her. Ask her to put 12 cups of water in a pot to make syrup for the humming bird feeders and she had no idea what you wanted. But give her a dust mop and she would clean the wooden floors all day. It hurt Mom's sense of sensibility and order to see dog hairs on the floor. Since we have a St. Bernard, there was plenty of opportunity for her to maintain her desire for cleanliness. I look at my floors now, sigh and break out the dust mop myself. But not daily.
I would give Mom simple tasks. "What to help me peel the potatoes Mom?" "How about setting the table?" It was a lesson in patience all over again. Her help was much like the help a four-year-old offers. I learned to slow down. I could peel five potatoes to her one. What was the hurry? The woman who used to host Republican Women teas could no longer remember where silverware went. But lets face it, food tastes the same whether the fork is next to the knife, in the middle of the plate, or next to the water glass.Maybe a salad does taste good with grape jelly on it. "Go ahead and set the jelly next to the salad dressing, Mom. Maybe someone would like to try it."
Those were some of the most difficult times of my life and I miss them.
At the nursing home Mom continues to help set the table before meals. The staff looks on her as a hoarder but I am certain when she takes water glasses to the table she has every intention of setting them at her table-mates' plates. But by the time she gets to the table she forgets why she has four extra glasses in her hands and places them all at her space. Sometimes she realizes her mistake and will take the glasses back to her room with her. An attempt, I am also certain, to hide the fact she did something "wrong."
We can smile, nod and wink at her swiss cheese memory (as in it's full of holes). And we often do. It's not at her expense, believe me. It's simply coping mechanism.
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