Everything's Relative
Most of my visits to the Memory Unit follow the same pattern: supper, pajamas, television in the living room. This is especially true as days get shorter and evenings creep along earlier and earlier. My mother and I sit in twin rocking chairs, arranged in a space overcrowded with three love seats, two recliners, and two more rockers. Though furniture is packed in, the overall effect is cozy, and without looking too closely, a person could believe this was their living room, filled with relatives and friends who look familiar but cannot quite be placed.
After all, if you spend every day in a familiar place where everyone knows your name and eats meals and celebrates holidays together, wouldn't you expect (or hope) that those people were your family?
***
The last full sentence my mother says to me spills out in the form of a question. Close to Thanksgiving, I help her get ready for dinner. As I brush a few loose strands of hair from her eyes, she scans my face and asks, "Do you work here?" I sigh automatically. "No, Mom." I hold her hands and rest my forehead on hers. "I'm here to see you. Your family loves you very much and we always will."
SweetRoll continues to think my mother is her sister, and she has better nights when she believes this to be true. We do not encourage SweetRoll's mistake, but we correct her less and less often.
My sister visits with her boyfriend. He towers above everyone and, as the youngest guy around, easily attracts attention. During one of his first trips to the Unit, Gatherer meanders over to me and leans in close. "Is he your brother?" she asks. Before I can answer, she moves on, walking right up to my sister's boyfriend and shaking his hand. Very slowly, she mumbles, "Hello," and grasps his hand longer than he seems comfortable with.
LadiesMan is relentless, even as he spends more and more of his time sleeping in his room. He becomes so thin that when he does emerge in the public space, his pants slip off his hips, even when accompanied by a belt latched on the tightest notch. With one hand on his waist and the other grasping nearby furniture for stability, he makes a beeline for my mother. Nurse diverts him to another section of the room where he stares at my mother and waves every time she turns in his direction.
After all, if you spend every day in a familiar place where everyone knows your name and eats meals and celebrates holidays together, wouldn't you expect (or hope) that those people were your family?
***
The last full sentence my mother says to me spills out in the form of a question. Close to Thanksgiving, I help her get ready for dinner. As I brush a few loose strands of hair from her eyes, she scans my face and asks, "Do you work here?" I sigh automatically. "No, Mom." I hold her hands and rest my forehead on hers. "I'm here to see you. Your family loves you very much and we always will."
SweetRoll continues to think my mother is her sister, and she has better nights when she believes this to be true. We do not encourage SweetRoll's mistake, but we correct her less and less often.
My sister visits with her boyfriend. He towers above everyone and, as the youngest guy around, easily attracts attention. During one of his first trips to the Unit, Gatherer meanders over to me and leans in close. "Is he your brother?" she asks. Before I can answer, she moves on, walking right up to my sister's boyfriend and shaking his hand. Very slowly, she mumbles, "Hello," and grasps his hand longer than he seems comfortable with.
LadiesMan is relentless, even as he spends more and more of his time sleeping in his room. He becomes so thin that when he does emerge in the public space, his pants slip off his hips, even when accompanied by a belt latched on the tightest notch. With one hand on his waist and the other grasping nearby furniture for stability, he makes a beeline for my mother. Nurse diverts him to another section of the room where he stares at my mother and waves every time she turns in his direction.
On a random evening, as LadiesMan keeps watch of my mother's activities, Gatherer makes the rounds. She pulls fake orchids from vases placed around the television then steals a nearby walker and tries to ram her way out the front door (albeit very slowly). After tiring of this activity, she somehow winds up back in the living room, where she shares a couch with LadiesMan. Without a word, LadiesMan puts his arm around her and she rests her head on his shoulder.
Evening after evening, my mother and I watch the actors on the television along with the residents of the Memory Unit. Life happens around us. We hardly speak to each other, but when I glance in her direction, she almost always catches my eye and smiles.
In what capacity she knows me is less important than her smile, which says "I remember you" more clearly than her words ever will.
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