"Who ME?"

When my mother is released from the hospital in Omaha, she moves directly into a Memory Unit about two miles from my parents’ house. McKenzie and I visit one afternoon a few weeks after Mother moves in, and when we arrive, Mother is sitting in a wooden dining chair next to a gentleman who looks to be pushing 90 years old.  He is reaching across the space between chairs to hold her hand, and I notice right away that his thumb is gently stroking hers.  She just sits, looking confused and tired. The man is talking to one of the Nurses at the kitchen counter, and they all turn our direction when we enter.

“Hello there,” LadiesMan smiles.  His voice is warm and he seems genuinely glad to see us.

“Hi LadiesMan,” I reply, trying to be civil.  “Hi Mom,” I say with more enthusiasm, looking past the friendly gentleman to my mother.  She jumps up and grins, waving off LadiesMan’s hand.  She tries to speak, but no words materialize, just drool that falls onto her shirt.

“Oh, you know these girls?” LadiesMan asks her.  He turns to us again and smiles.  “She’s a real good lady.”

“I know,” I reply.  “She’s our Mom.”  McKenzie and I drag two chairs across the room and line them up next to Mother’s. 

LadiesMan laughs.  “No, I don’t think so.”  He thinks for a few seconds, his eyes moving from one face to another.  “Sisters, maybe.”

His attention to Mother makes me uncomfortable, so when we take seats, we situate Mother between us so I am now next to LadiesMan.  We chat with Nurse for a few minutes about how Mother is stealing food from other residents at meal times and how the staff has her eat in the kitchen by herself so she knows which plate is hers.  Apparently this is working out well, especially since when she spills half the food on the floor they can sweep it up easily.

LadiesMan watches our conversation for a while and then leans my direction to ask in a low voice, “Is she single?”  He points at McKenzie, who does not seem to hear the question.

“No,” I whisper back.  “She’s married, and he’s the jealous type.”

“Ah,” says LadiesMan, sitting back in his chair. 

A high-pitched yell emanates from one of the hallways, and Nurse breaks off the conversation.

“Howler!” she calls.  The yelp echoes again.  “I’ll be right back, Howler’s been acting up today,” Nurse sighs as she walks away.

“How’s my pretty lady?” LadiesMan asks, leaning in front of me so he can smile at Mother.

“Let’s sit in the living room,” I urge McKenzie quickly.

We settle in some rocking chairs, McKenzie and I surrounding Mother on both sides.  Acknowledging that there is no space for him, LadiesMan retreats to his room until dinner.

This commons area includes a few loveseats, multiple rocking chairs, a gas fireplace, and a flat screen TV, which gives the space conflicting vibes of “homey” and “institutional.”  My mother does not really watch television after her hospital visit, and her vocabulary has diminished to just the word “no,” so we watch the other residents mill about during commercials of the ever-present marathon of Golden Girls. 

“Oh, boy,” sighs OhBoy from one of the recliners.  “It’s 5:00.”

“I need to get home,” pipes up an older woman sitting next to him.  “I have to take care of the kids.”  When OhBoy doesn’t respond or even look at her, she turns to us.  “I have sixty-three children you know.  They keep me busy all the time.”

“It’s getting cloudy,” OhBoy announces to the room in reply.  “5:10. Oh, boy.”

The scent of fish sticks and green beans roll across the room in waves, and Nurse tells OhBoy that it is time to eat just before she sets off to round up the rest of the residents.  McKenzie and I guide Mother to the kitchen counter, where a plate is waiting.  Mother stands behind the counter with McKenie, who helps her navigate the spoon.  I take up the chair directly across from them and hold the plate still. 

After all the residents are served, Nurse continues our previous conversation about Mother’s eating habits.  Mother has remembered how to use a straw as her medication was adjusted, though her neck is still noticeably crooked. 

McKenzie situates a few green beans on the spoon and Mother takes the handle.  Just before shoving the utensil in her mouth, she focuses on McKenzie and asks out of the blue, “Who?”

For a split second no one answers, and Mother takes her bite.

“You, Mom, you!” I reply with a light tone.

Mother’s hand freezes in midair as her eyes widen.

“Me?” she asks over the metal spoon resting on her tongue.

This reply takes us all by surprise because it is a real reply.  In the few seconds of silence that follow, Mother catches my eye and laughs a hearty, honest laugh.  McKenzie, Nurse, and I reply in kind, and for a few fleeting seconds, this feels like home.

*Authors note:  We have had the privilege to spend time with and get to know the residents, families, and staff at the memory unit, so it seems natural that they appear in the stories.  Because the residents are variations of their former selves (and for their privacy), they appear with pseudonyms, as do the staff (who are collectively referred to as "Nurse").  I can only imagine what monikers other residents and their families would have for my mother, but no matter what personalities she cycles through, I reserve "Mother" for her, because that is who she will always be to me.