“Have you ever thought about doing one of theMy Storyboxes for her?”
I look at Lydia and furrow my brow. “What areMy Storyboxes?”
“Haven’t you seen them on any of the doors?” I shake my head.
“I’m always so focused when I get here. Maybe I’ll look for them. Are they obvious?”
“Yeah, pretty obvious. Families tuck them in the little nook outside each room, but I think it would be wonderful for you ifyou wanted to create one for your mom so people could see who she was—her story.”
“That sounds nice. I’ll take a look before I leave.”
“Let me know if you have any questions. I’d be happy to help you with it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You’ve been very kind.”
We sit in silence, watching Mom, for a few moments. Then, I think about how she touched my hand, and I force myself to focus my attention back on this moment in time. I can feel Lydia’s eyes on me, but I don’t look her way.
“You know what I think I miss most?” My voice is hushed, not wanting to pull Mom’s attention from something she loves so much. “I miss her hugs or her holding my hand when we were walking through a crowded shopping center. I hated it when I was a teenager because I thought it was embarrassing, but what I wouldn’t give now for that. She stopped reaching for my hand a few years ago.”
Lydia says nothing, but I don’t feel uncomfortable with the silence. Something about her sets me at ease.
“She was the best, always making sure I had plenty of emotional connection and loving physical touch. She held me a lot when I was little. I remember watching some of my favorite shows while snuggled up in her arms. She never told me no when I asked to sit on her lap, even if she was doing something and had to stop, or as I grew and got heavier. Heck, she held me through a couple of horrible breakups in my teenage years. Now that’s gone. She’s the only family I have, and it feels like I’m losing more of her every day.”
I glance over at Lydia, and she is looking at me. Embarrassment suddenly consumes me.
“God, I’m so sorry. I just met you twenty minutes ago, and now I’ve dumped my life story on you.”
“Don’t be sorry, honey. It sounds like you needed to get that out. All the things you’re talking about, the things that you lose—they matter. This disease feels like losing hundreds of small things. What’s that saying? Death by a million cuts or something like that. That’s what Alzheimer’s disease feels like to me. A million little cuts to the person who has the disease, but also inflicted on those people who love them. The thing about a million cuts, though, is that no matter how tiny they seem individually, they all make you bleed. Pretty soon, they add up and feel really, really big, and they hurt your heart the most. So, don’t ever worry about sharing things with me. I completely understand. Plus, I love to talk.”
She gives me a smile, I assume to lighten the mood, and it works.
Mom is getting a little restless now, dumping out the dirt and not putting the plant back. Lydia notices.
“Looks like you’ve had enough of that, Hattie. Huh?”
Mom glances at her, then turns back to the dirt. Maybe she still recognizes her name. That’s good, I think.
Lydia and I stand, and as I turn to help Mom get up, I pause and look back at Lydia.
“Thank you for everything today. It was so kind of you.”
The soft smile she offers in response, and the look in her eyes—full of compassion and understanding—touches my heart. It’s a mother’s smile, just like my mom used to give. That doesn’t happen with my mom anymore. If there’s any smiling, it’s just a hint of one.
I hate that this disease steals smiles, too.
“Delaney, I know we just met, and it’s absolutely okay to say no, but can I give you a hug?”
I laugh awkwardly. “You don’t have to do that. You probably think I’m a total weirdo now.”
“I don’t. I think you’re a daughter grieving the loss of things this disease has taken from your family. and trying to do a lot of things by herself. And you’re someone who sounds like they need a hug.”
She opens her arms, and I hesitate, but then I step into them and allow her to hug me. My hands rest lightly on her back, but as the slight tightness of her arms around me floods me with warmth and a sense of peace, I squeeze a little more. After a few seconds, I reluctantly let go.
“Thank you… I think I did need that.”
I turn before she can answer, and I look at Mom. I give her the best smile I can muster.
“What do you say we go get those hands washed and maybe have a little ice cream?” I swear, my mom’s eyes light up when she hears the words “ice cream.” Maybe I’m imagining it, but God, the woman loves her ice cream. It doesn’t matter what flavor it is. She made it easy because anywhere I took her, I could get her something she enjoyed. I send up a silent plea that Alzheimer’s doesn’t steal her love of ice cream any time soon.
