It’s all rather lovely, considering what it really is: the last stop for my mother. For the last two years that she’s been here, she had been able to participate, at least in a limited way, in the bingo nights and the daily walks around the property, the occasional salsa lesson. But now, she can’t do any of it. Worse than that, her mind has become an increasingly incomplete and hostile place to be.
She doesn’t miss the salsa lessons because the memories around her and my father at the salsa dancing club are like bits of paper, set afire and floating away like ashes on the wind. In my favorite picture of her, her head is thrown back in an uproarious laugh, eyes flashing, mid-dance step, her long hair whipping around her.
That woman is long gone, and my mother has no idea who she was.
The folks at the front desk are very familiar with me, though this time I’m walking down a new hallway. Finding my mother’s room, my gut churns to see that it’s definitely more of a hospital suite than an assisted-living apartment. A big hospital bed takes up the bulk of the room, but there is enough room for a small couch and a compact breakfast table by a big picture window overlooking a beautifully manicured atrium.
Mom is sitting with her nurse at the table. She looks frail, barely able to hold herself upright, but she smiles so brightly at me that I think for half a second she might remember me.
She doesn’t always, but it’s special when she does.
"Well, aren't you a handsome man? So big and strong. Are you here to help me move this TV? I hate where it’s placed. All I get is a terrible glare.”
"Hi, Mom. No, I'm here to visit with you.” She tries to get me to move the TV every time I come by for a visit, but I already know the score.
"That's lovely of you. Such a kind boy. You remind me a little of my son. He's kind of portly right now, but all the men in my family start off a little chubby and then get big and strong just like you."
I dig my nails into my palm and try to remember what the counselor said. Correcting her won’t make this hurt any less, and it certainly won’t help her. I'm not going to make her feel bad for not remembering who I am.
Her nurse, Roberta, is a specialized geriatric nurse who works with patients who have dementia and she’ll be taking care of her from here on out.
"Hi, Roberta, nice to see you again."
"Good afternoon, Thane. How’s it been, you big lump of a man?”
Roberta stands and pats my arm, then grabs my mom’s plate before she can push it to the floor. Mom looks between us and smiles.
"Your name is Thane? My son's name is Thane. He's such a lovely boy. You remind me of him," she says, staring out the window.
I turn to Roberta. “Any updates?”
“We’re holding steady for now. Coming to visit is especially helpful. I know it’s tough, but you can see a change in her mood when you or your dad come for a visit.”
I appreciate Roberta’s sensitivity. Other nurses have asked why my father and I never visit at the same time, or they make jokes about the fact that they’ve never seen us together in the same space. I’m grateful she doesn’t make me deal with that bullshit.
I keep an eye on the interaction that Roberta has with my mom, and realize I’ve forgotten that my mom can be funny.
“Roberta? Do you have any lipstick? I’ve got a hot date.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t due to look pasty when my Jeremy comes by.”
“True story. Want me to run a brush through your hair?
“Perfect.”
Mom is acting like they’re old friends, and I try not to let it hurt too bad.
"Dottie, don't do that, you'll hurt yourself," Roberta says in a measured tone, one markedly different from the one she was using just seconds ago. I’d been drifting, so I refocus to see what's going on.
My mom strikes out, connecting with Roberta's cheek. "Don't you tell me what to do. Who the hell are you anyway? Get me the fuck out of here, you stupid bitch. Don't touch me."
Roberta turns to me, her cheek marked red with my mother's fist. "Can you hand me a couple of pillows? I just need to make sure she doesn't hurt herself while she works it out."
I do as I’m asked, and Roberta holds the pillows the way a trainer might hold pads for a boxer. My mother starts windmilling her arms, hitting the pillows again and again. I look over at Roberta, and she shakes her head at me.
“Sometimes we just gotta get it out."
