The Best Feeling in the World

SweetRoll adds an electric charge to the air in the Memory Unit when she is having a bad day. She isolates herself in the room, under her bedcovers, lights off, curtains and door closed tightly. Any brave soul who asks the octogenarian if she would like to join everyone for breakfast/lunch/supper gets a surprisingly articulate tongue lashing about their rudeness for bothering her in the middle of the night, especially for something she has to do with people she doesn't like. The nicest phrase she hurls at the door is “Get out!” 

On days like these, if she does eventually decide her hunger is the lesser of two evils, she moseys to the table in her pants pajamas and knee-length blue cotton robe. She is able to dress herself, and any attempts to talk her into “day clothes” are shot down with piercing narrow eyes, a quick sniff, and the very clear “You can't tell me what to do.”

Though she complains about much food is given to her, and then how bad it tastes, she eats almost everything. How SweetRoll interacts with the staff and others in the building seems directly proportionate to how lonely she feels. The days when she seems comfortable and engaged with the other residents produces direct compliments to Nurse about how good the food is.

At least one member of my family visits the Unit every day.  We debrief the others later about how Mother and the other residents are doing, what food was served for the meal, any staff changes, and who had visitors. To our collective knowledge, SweetRoll has no visitors, even during holiday seasons. We assume that her closest relative lives out of state and is just not able to see her. 

One evening when my father visits, SweetRoll is at her most unpleasant. Insults fill the air and she sasses back to the Nurse with every interaction. Her insurgency has been building for days, and my father finally breaks. “You should call her family and let them know what is going on,” he convinces Nurse. She does, and to my father's surprise, SweetRoll's daughter walks in about ten minutes later.  Not only does she live in town, but less than a mile away. 

The second SweetRoll sees who has arrived, her acidic demeanor vanishes. In its place are a constant smile and watery eyes. She can't speak enough pleases and thank yous and why don't you sit by mes? The simple act of a family visit means so much to SweetRoll that it literally converts her from Mr Hyde into Dr Jekyll. It has made all the difference.

***

Just knowing that family or someone is there to visit makes an impact, not just for the resident but the visitor as well. Hullo is a petite woman with short white hair, no teeth, and a very limited vocabulary in her current stage of the dementia. My mother tends to gravitate toward her, for reasons unknown to us, and Hullo snaps that she should keep walking when my mother looms over her, drooling on her socks. Sometimes Hullo comments that my mother is “cute” and a “little girl” before turning away. 

Hullo spends her day sitting in a rocking chair or at the dining room table. She hides much of her food in her napkin or glass of milk, so the staff stops giving them to her at meals. Her daughter and son-in-law visit about once every week or two, and they make a point to say hello to my mother (who is their age) and learn our names. Sometimes Hullo nods when she sees them, but often she keeps playing with her food. 

One night this spring, when Hullo's daughter and son-in-law stop for a visit, Hullo turns around in her chair and exclaims, “Hey! That's my daughter!” Her daughter runs to her and asks, “What's my name?” Hullo says the name, and her daughter throws her hands in the air and jumps. “That's my sister, but I'll take it!”

***

There are days... there are days when I am so tired. Exhausted. Even in my bones and clinging to the edges of my soul. The enormity of what's at stake and my own petty helplessness sticks to my thoughts and pushes the question, “What's the point of all this?” Visiting my mother in this mindset is a real challenge, especially when I arrive at the Memory Unit and find her rocking in a living room chair desperate to stand, breakfast and lunch and afternoon snack drooled down the front of her shirt, and her hair flying everywhere but the small elastic band that desperately clings to a few remaining hairs.

“Hi Mom,” I sigh and kneel in front of her chair. “Ready to go for a walk?” Her right eyebrow arches when she sees me. I force a smile and hold out my hands, palms up. She beams, exposing bits of strawberry yogurt mixed with crushed pills that ooze between her teeth. She sets her sticky hands in mine and we stand up together. After taking a minute or two to get her balance, she plods halfway through the dining room before stopping by the kitchen to examine the carpet. Tugging on her arm only cements her in place, so I either wait or guide her along with my arm behind her back.

SweetRoll greets us with, “What do you want” when we enter the room. I tell her we are going to get ready for supper, and she pulls the bedspread higher and says she would rather sleep.

I turn Mother's radio to an Oldies station or play a “Mom mix” cd we burned for her. SweetRoll grumbles it is too loud in the same breath she comments that it is a good song. I clean Mother in the bathroom, changing her clothes, washing her face and hands, regathering her ponytail, wiping the sleep from her eyes and applying moisturizer. A quick misting of body spray makes her laugh. Drool continually escapes the corner of her mouth, so I tuck some tissues into her collar to keep her shirt clean. 

She roams the room for a few minutes hunting electrical plugs. Once she spots one on the wall, her pace quickens and she reaches for it. Her balance won't allow her to bend over far enough to touch the sockets, so she straightens a bit and scoots on. Occasionally she spots me across the room, watching. I smile, and her face turns younger. For a few precious seconds, her eyes open wide with her smile and the Unit seems to disappear. Then, as quickly as saw me, her gaze moves on, ushering back a placid stare and the sheet-rock walls that suddenly feel very close.

We inevitably wind up in the living room after dinner to watch reruns of the same three or four sitcoms or Hallmark movies. Mother sits next to me, holding my hand as her eyelids push down on her eyes. Often, when she seems to be asleep, I glance at her and her eyes pop open.  She tilts her head to look at me and smiles. Some evenings, this happens almost every time I glance at her, as if she can sense me watching or we are co-conspirators in this very odd place. No matter how depressed or overwhelmed I feel, each smile she shares makes me feel like one of the luckiest people in the world.