Chapter Twenty
Delaney
Istep back and gaze at the collection of items before me. There’s a small birdhouse, a beautiful floral-patterned journal with only a few pages used, and a plaque that readsNursing Assistant of the Year, Hattie Larson.Those mementos, along with a few photographs of Mom and me, Mom’s gardens, and one of her and Pat, are my attempt to depict who Mom was before Alzheimer’s.
Mom sits in her wheelchair watching television in her room, seemingly unaware of the near meltdown I’m having as I stare at herMy Storybox. I notice someone approaching in my peripheral vision, but I don’t turn to see who it is. Instead, I continue the fight to hold back my emotional reaction to the display, and I absentmindedly run my fingers over the satiny fabric I’m holding.
“It’s beautiful, Delaney. It tells me a lot about your mom.” Lydia’s voice is reverent, but reassuring.
I can’t look at her, afraid if I do I won’t be able to hold it together.
“I wanted to do a really good job, but it’s more difficult than I thought it would be.”
Lydia doesn’t reply but stands in silent support by my side. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but she’s become indispensable to me. It brings me peace of mind knowing she comes here to visit or feed Mom several times a week.
“I know what all these items represent and how perfectly they speak to who she is, but… but people who didn’t know herbefore,they’ll never get to know that version of her. They can look at these items all day, but they’ll never know how amazing she was. How generous and patient. How loved she is.”
Lydia places a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not for them, Delaney. Okay, maybe a little for people to get a glimpse of who she was, but it’s honoring her. It’s for you, Pat, and Mrs. Nicker—all who love her. On those days when it’s really rough, and you feel like she’s forgetting more, you can spend a minute here remembering what a wonderful and vibrant person she is.”
I turn my head to face her. “Is? Don’t you mean was?” My words leave my mouth in a hushed tone.
Lydia squeezes my shoulder and smiles.
“No, honey. I mean is. Dementia steals memories, but it can’t steal who we are. Even if someone has forgotten everything, they still possess the qualities that the people who love them recognize. Yes, your mom doesn’t remember these parts of who she is, but you do. So, she’s still that woman because you hold the memories here—” she pauses and points at her head, “—and here.” Lydia places her hand over her heart.
The evidence of my pain and sorrow now rushes down my cheeks in hot streams.
“I have one more thing to put up there.”
I lean forward and grasp one of the tacks I’ve been using to secure items onto the burlap-covered board. I carefully pin upthe blue ribbon I’m holding. It fits perfectly at the center of the board.
I stare at the “#1 Mom” inscription in the clumsy handwriting of my grade-school self. Then I step back, shut, and lock the plexiglass cover.
“That’s perfect,” Lydia says. “Now, what do you say we go give Hattie her evening ice cream, and you can tell me all about the items you included?”
I can’t manage words right now, so I simply nod.
Over the next half hour, Lydia feeds Mom her pistachio ice cream—another of her favorites. While they’re doing that, I sit on the side of Mom’s bed going through the eighteen—yes, I counted correctly—journals Mom has amassed over the years.
Mom seems to recognize them and reaches for one every once in a while.
“Do you remember these, Hattie? It seems you like them.”
I smile at Mom and hand her the butterfly-covered journal she’s reaching for, then glance up at Lydia. “Mom loves journals. She’d start writing in them and keep it up for a few days—maybe even weeks sometimes—but then forget, or a new one would catch her eye, and she’d move on.”
Lydia chuckles.
“That sounds like me with planners, Hattie.” I love how she talks to Mom and doesn’t exclude her from conversations. “I can’t tell you how many planners I have at home that I started then abandoned.”
I laugh, and the sound startles me. I never expected the veil of sadness I felt earlier would lift so quickly.
“Me too! That’s my issue, right, Mom? I’m a planner hussy.”
Mom glances at me and smiles slightly. It’s gone as rapidly as it came on, but I’m thrilled, regardless.
“I think I’ll leave a few of these on her shelf over there. Maybe she’ll find some joy in them still. She seems to favor the nature-themed ones.”
