Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Delaney
The short drive to the nursing home goes by quickly, and I rush inside to sign in. I glance at my watch and see dinner’s been going on for forty-five minutes now.
Damn it.
I get into the memory care unit and make my way to the dining room, but Mom isn’t here. There are a few stragglers finishing their meals with Ashley, an aide, helping them as needed. That makes me feel better. At least someone is feeding the residents who can’t manage on their own.
“Hi, Ashley,” I say to her. “Do you know where my mom is? Did she eat dinner yet?”
Ashley’s young, maybe in her early twenties, and in nursing school.
I’ve learned a lot about the aides during the days I’ve sat here and fed Mom.
It’s almost like they forget I’m there when they’re dishing out all the gossip or talking about their own lives.
Anyway, good for Ashley that she’s chasing her dream.
I think of Mom and how much she wanted to be a nurse, and the guilt that I held her back hits me. I push it away from my mind.
“Yep. She ate about half. We had a volunteer feed her because she wasn’t really showing interest in trying to eat any of the finger foods—even the fries.
And you know your mama loves those fries.
” I smile at her, pleased that she cares enough to have noted how much Mom loves the French fries here.
“We’ll watch her and see if this is a new pattern or if this was a one-off.
Anyway, she left here with Lydia, so I suspect she’s out in the garden. ”
“Oh, okay. I don't know Lydia. Is she a new aide?”
“No, she’s the volunteer.” She pauses and wipes a resident’s mouth with a napkin, and I note the care she takes. “I’ve been seeing her here with your mom a lot. Hattie responds well to her.”
“Okay, thank you. I’m thrilled to hear that.”
I head to the garden, fully expecting that I’ll see my mom sitting or standing, staring off. Instead, she’s outside, perched on a stool, putting a flower into a pot. I’m stunned.
There’s a pretty, well-put-together woman who I would place in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, sitting next to Mom.
I watch for a moment, overjoyed that Mom is taking part, especially in something she loved so much when she was well.
After a minute or two, the woman glances up and sees me, then gives me a small wave and a smile.
I open the door and step outside, breathing in the summer air.
Mom loves summer. Or she did. I realize I don’t know whether that applies anymore. A fresh wave of sorrow washes over me.
“Hi, you must be Lydia.”
I give her an awkward half-wave. I’m not used to people other than me, Pat, or Mrs. Nicker spending time with Mom beyond that required to provide physical care or feed her. It’s thrown me off.
“I am. I’m guessing you’re Delaney?” The woman gives me a warm smile.
“That’s me. Nice to meet you. Ashley told me you fed Mom. Thank you for doing that.”
“Oh, my gosh, no need to thank me. It’s my pleasure to help.”
“Do you mind if I watch?” I gesture to Mom. She’s so focused on her work.
“Of course not. You can even work with her.”
“I think I’d rather just say hello, then watch, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. No problem at all.”
I move to where Mom is sitting and put myself in her line of vision. She tilts her head slightly toward me—so I’m sure she’s aware of my presence—but she doesn’t look at me. I kneel in front of her.
“Hi, Mama. It’s me, Delaney.”
Mom turns her head and glances at me, but says nothing. That seems to happen more and more lately. I worry it means her disease is progressing more rapidly. God, I hope not. Maybe taking part in activities like this will help slow down some of her cognitive decline.
She reaches over to me with a dirt-covered hand and pats mine. Then she pulls back quickly. Joy floods me for a fleeting moment. She may not be able to say my name, but at least it seems she feels something positive when I’m around.
I rise, then take a seat on the bench, where I can watch what Mom’s doing.
She takes the same small plant, digs around in the dirt with her hand, and places it in the soil, only to take it out and repeat the process over and over.
There are a couple of small starter plants near her, but she’s very focused on the one she has. She’s calm, so all is well.
Lydia sits next to me. “I’m sorry your mom is ill.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I appreciate that.”
“The staff tells me you’re here quite a bit. Does the rest of your family come and visit to give you a little bit of a respite?”
“There is no one else. My mom was a single mom my entire life. No siblings. There are some distant cousins who live somewhere like Iowa or Indiana, but I’ve never even met them, and she doesn’t know them either.”
“So, it’s just you, mainly?” Her voice is kind.
“She has one friend. Well, two, kind of. There’s her best friend, Pat, and I know she comes to visit. She has some health issues herself, though, so she can’t be here as often as she’d like. Mom worked with her, and they were gambling buddies. They loved taking long weekend trips to Vegas.”
A sense of happiness fills me, remembering how much joy those trips brought her. Still, sadness pokes at the edge of the feeling, reminding me that’s another thing her Alzheimer’s disease has stolen from her.
“Then our old neighbor, who Mom used to garden with, comes once in a while. She’s pushing eighty, though, so it’s not super easy for her anymore either. She used to stay with Mom for me sometimes when I had to work.”
I watch Mom the whole time I’m talking to Lydia and realize I’ve rambled.
“Shoot, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.
So, as far as family, just me, but a few friends.
I could have been that simple, huh?” I turn my head to look at Lydia, and she’s focused on me, appearing genuinely interested.
“It’s all okay though, I love seeing her”—I pause and take a focused breath to gain control of my emotions—“She was such a wonderful mom.”
“I’d love to hear more about what she was like before she became ill, if you want to share.”
“That’s really kind of you, but it’s okay. I imagine having me vomit our history on you isn’t what you thought would happen when you came in to volunteer today.”
I glance over at Mom again, just in time to see her palm some dirt in one hand and then take her fingers of the opposite hand and rub some soil between them. A slight gasp escapes me.
“She’s testing the soil, like she used to,” I whisper.
“That she is,” Lydia responds with kindness in her voice. “That’s a mark of a true gardener, there.”
Mom resumes her planting and digging up the same starter plant, oblivious to the array of emotions going through me right now. Seeing her do something seemingly so small, but incredibly meaningful, gave me the gift of a glimpse of her old self.
“Delaney?”
I turn to look at Lydia.
“My mother died here seven years ago, with dementia. They took beautiful care of her. It’s why I volunteer.
I, and a few of my children, now sit on the facility’s board.
So, I know what this feels like, and I’m sure what she just did meant a lot to you.
I wasn’t just being polite when I told you I’d love to know more about your mom. ”
I search her face for any hint that she’s just being kind to me, or that she’s only trying to comfort me. I don’t see it.
“Well, let’s see… She was a single mom from the time I was born.
Actually, I guess that’s technically not true.
She was briefly married when I was a preteen, but that was over so fast I hardly count it.
Her husband was nice to me, but my stepsister was horribly mean.
” I chuckle and glance at Mom, then return my gaze to Lydia.
“Mom was a nursing assistant. It was backbreaking, and she worked her butt off for years to provide for me. We didn’t have a lot of money, but I never knew it.
She was generous to other people, and I was well cared for.
And I always, every single day of my life, knew how much she loved me. ”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“Yeah, she is. She’d been on her own since eighteen, stayed single, and worked so hard for years until she’d saved enough money and qualified for a small student loan that enabled her to go to nursing school.
It was her dream, and it was in sight—she’d just finished her first year of nursing school at thirty-six years old, but then… ”
“She didn’t complete school?”
I look back over at Mom and frown.
“Nope. That summer, she found out she was pregnant with me. She left school and had me shortly after turning thirty-seven. She dropped out to raise me. By the time I was heading off to college, her symptoms had started, and she couldn’t go back and finish.
I think that was her plan. I’d found some open internet pages for the community college’s nursing program on our home computer. ”
Guilt tries to creep into my heart, a common occurrence these days. It makes sense; she sacrificed everything for me and never got to chase her dream. Then, I couldn’t even return the favor and take care of her.
“Have you ever thought about doing one of the My Story boxes for her?”
I look at Lydia and furrow my brow. “What are My Story boxes?”
“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 if you 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.
Let her keep that one small joy, at least.