It was a typical Saturday. I was up early to get my morning exercise in and fix breakfast for my husband. Like usual, I felt a bit rushed knowing I also needed to visit my mother. These weekly visits with her took most of the day, but I hoped to get some errands done on my way home. Lately, my visits had grown shorter because Mom slept so much of the day. The morning flew by, and I was on the road by 9 a.m., arriving at the nursing home around 10:30. But that was to be the end of this “normal” Saturday.
Walking around the nursing home hallways, I looked for Mom in all the regular places. A bit concerned, I even looked closely at the ladies slumped over in their wheelchair to be sure they weren’t Mom. Still, I could not find her anywhere.
Perhaps she is actually in her bedroom, I wondered, and I headed toward room 222. What I saw as I walked in shocked me. Mom was sitting on her bed alright, but this was not my 95 year old mother. It was my mother from 30 years ago, wearing her blue and white jersey print dress, nylons with a stitched seam down by her ankle revealing her repair work. I recognized the old tan walking shoes as I rubbed my eyes, astounded at her youthful appearance. Her reddish brown hair had no gray at all, and she wore those goofy, dark-brown framed, pointed-rim glasses we used to tease her about when we were kids. She was her normal size too. Five foot, 3 inches tall…about 165 – 170 pounds, no longer the 85-pound frail and crumpled over woman she had become in recent years.
“Mom? Is that you?” I asked hesitatingly.
“Why, yes, Janet, of course it’s me. I’ve been waiting and waiting all morning for your visit. Let’s get going. We haven’t much time.”
“Wait a minute,” I hesitated. “What’s going on here? You look like you did 30 years ago?”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mom exclaimed. “I think it is a special gift for you and I… just for today. Now, let’s go for a walk and see if Chang and Ty are out in their yard.”
Chang and Ty? What in the world? I remembered them as two neighborhood chows my mother loved to stop and talk to every day as she took her morning walk. I figured I must be dreaming; but it was so very wonderful to see mom the way I remembered her most fondly before the cruelty of dementia and old age took her. If it was a dream, I certainly didn’t want to wake up, so I played along.
So, off we walked down the hallway and out the front door of the nursing home. Somehow we’d been transported back in time and space, for as soon as we stepped outside, we were in my childhood neighborhood.
“Mom! We’re walking along Dover Court! I can’t believe it!”
“I know, honey. Let’s get going on our morning walk.” Mom gently insisted. I sensed that she knew this transformation of self, time and place was temporary and she wanted to get the most out of it.
As we walked, I noticed she was hobbling a bit. This was nothing new. Mom struggled with bad feet for years. As a girl growing up in the depression, she never was able to wear the right sized shoe and had to wear whatever shoe her family could afford that came close to fitting. Necessity had pretty much destroyed her feet. Coupled with hereditary arthritis (which I inherited) we looked very awkward trudging down Dover Court.
“Look, Mom. We are both hobbling back and forth as we walk,” I noted. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess. It hurts to walk, doesn’t it? I never knew how much pain you were in years ago. Now, having my own pain, I realize how hard it must have been for you.”
“Well, Janet,” Mom replied, “I’m afraid you are the daughter who inherited the arthritis gene. I guess I should apologize for that. I got it from my mother, and now it’s yours.”
“No apologies are necessary, Mom. I know it’s just genetics. But you can apologize for giving me your hips!” I laughed, and she chuckled too.
“There they are!” she pointed. We had arrived at the home of the two chows. “Hi Chang! Hi Ty!” Mom hollered. “How are you boys today?” The two dogs barked in response and ran back and forth from one side of the fenced yard to the next like always. Her morning walk to say hello to her canine friends had been a huge part of her routine once her children were grown. Whenever I came to visit, she and I would often take the same walk.
My thoughts travelled back to a time when she was driving me home from some school function along the very same road where we walked this day. I was a young 13-year old, and out of the blue, Mom mentioned that my breasts were developing. Her comment embarrassed me something awful, and I just didn’t know what to say, so I copped an attitude and said, “Mom! Really!” But a few days later, Mom came home with a bra for me to wear. She knew I needed it. And it wasn’t long after that when I had to tell her that I had begun menstruating. That was awkward too. I much preferred to talk about such things with my older sister, Lucy. Mom didn’t say too much when I told her, but she did comment that she no longer had her periods. That season of life was over for her. Mom was 2 months shy of 40 when I was born, so she had already gone through menopause by the time I reached puberty. I had no idea what menopause was back then so I shrugged off her comment. After all, this was about ME, not her, for heaven’s sake.
Mom jarred me out of my reminiscing with an excited voice. “Come on, now, Janet. We’ve seen Chang and Ty. Let’s go back home and play some board games.”
Home? Were we really getting to go back to the home I grew up in on Dover Court? I had so many happy memories there, and most involved times I spent with my mother. Amazingly, we walked up to the front door, passing the beautiful peace rose bush that Dad had tended to so diligently; what a joy to see that it happened to be in full bloom this day. Once inside, she pranced down the short hallway off the small living room to the linen closet packed full of towels, sheets, pillow cases, and GAMES! She pulled out her favorite: Scrabble.
“Here,” she encouraged. “Sit down at the dining room table. I’ll make us some peanut butter sandwiches and we can play a game of Scrabble. You can even go first.”
It was almost too much to bear. Such a simple activity; and yet I couldn’t help but remember how often this game had been part of our family routine. Mom loved it so much that she would often play it by herself (as we grew older, we rarely had the time to sit and play a game with Mom.) Oh, the countless hours we played this silly game of Scrabble. And Mom ALWAYS let me win! Her other children could beat her all on their own, but I never could, so she would intentionally make small and simple words so I could win the game.
“Hey, Mom,” I was nearly crying. “Play a good game this time, and don’t let me win, okay?”
“Well, what’s the fun in that?” she replied. “The reason we always played this game when you kids were growing up was so you could build your knowledge of words. You needed to earn a love and appreciation for words. If allowing you to win helped you love to work with words, then I accomplished my purpose! Now, draw seven letters while I finish making our sandwiches.”
“Guess what, Mom?” I asked as I obediently drew the letters. “Like you and Dad, I also became a teacher. In fact, a big part of my job now involves linguistics; so grammar, word work and vocabulary development is a lot of what I do when I work with students.”
“Wonderful!” Mom exclaimed. “I guess I must have taught you well. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom, and you did teach me quite well.” Oh, the hours I spent doing my homework at that same gray metal dining room table. Mom was always nearby to help when needed. Mostly, she wanted to be sure I used correct grammar and word choice. I definitely was my mother’s daughter, for we both loved the language arts so much. Mom had greater talents than I, though. She loved literature and art too. I recalled the day I was forced to clean out the home on Dover Court because my parents were moving to the nursing home. I came across so many of her original writings–poetry mostly, but also short stories and editorials. She always said her goal in life was to be a writer (how often I have said the same thing). She never became a published writer, but she never stopped writing and instilling in her children a great appreciation for the language arts.
“Hey, Mom. Is SPINKLE a word?” I asked.
“Look it up” she commanded, like always, handing me the dictionary. It wasn’t a word.
“If you have an “R” and a “G” you can make SPRING instead?” The game went on like that…just like it used to, and we continued our reminiscing.
“Mom, do you remember when Lucy and Kathy made me hide in the clothes dryer during a Hide And Go Seek game? When Kathy finally found me, she turned the dryer on and left me to tumble around just like a load of clothes.”
“Oh yes, I remember that,” she laughed. “I heard an awful noise coming from the basement and I rushed downstairs to see what it was. There you were, nearly suffocating. I was rather upset with your sisters that day.”
“How about the time when they all made me lie on the hide-a-bed couch and then they folded me up in it and left me?” I chuckled, enjoying reliving those childhood traumas.
“How could I forget that? You screamed and screamed until I could get you out.”
“I guess I owe you, don’t I, Mom. Seems like you were always rescuing me.”
“Well, I knew your brothers and sisters were the instigators in all the mischief. Like the time your sister Kathy and you pretended to do your laundry in her new toy washing machine. You both ran around the front yard naked. I was so embarrassed in front of the neighbors, but I knew it had been Kathy’s idea.”
“Well, how about the time when Mark and I destroyed the film in your camera? That was the only time you ever spanked me. If you thought Mark had been the instigator, why did you spank me too?” I asked.
“You needed to learn to be respectful of other people’s possessions. You and Mark both needed to learn a good lesson that day.” She still sounded a bit upset by that memory, for we had destroyed some of her precious memories captured on film.
“Why do you think I was also so willing to go along with their antics?” I asked, really wanting to know her thoughts.
“Janet, you loved your siblings so much when you were little. You trusted them… you followed them around…you wanted to be with them, no matter what. You were always so easygoing, it actually worried me a bit. They could talk you into anything. So, when you finally started speaking up for yourself, I was a bit relieved.”
“I remember missing them so much when they were all in college and I was the only one left living at home.” I noted.
“But having them out of the house forced you to make good friends in high school and in your church youth group, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I guess you’re right about that. Hey Mom, I don’t know if I ever thanked you enough for always supporting me in whatever I did. You were the leader of our campfire girls and boy scout troops, you were the teacher of our Sunday school classes at church, you were PTA president and president of the Music Booster’s club. You did so much to support us as we grew up.”
“Well, Janet. You know, I always wanted you children to be busy and involved. I believe it kept you out of trouble.” She had made that same comment many times whenever we complained we were too busy.
By this time, we had finished our Scrabble game and were walking down the hallway to my bedroom. It was just like I remembered: lavender walls with frilly white curtains and a lavender desk and dresser. We sat on the small twin bed together. “Boy, you sure hated for us to sleep in on weekend mornings, didn’t you, Mom. You did all you could to wake us up early.”
“Morning is the best time of day!” she exclaimed. “You know that now, don’t you? When your father would sleep in and you kids wouldn’t get up, I’d sit at the dining room table and read my Bible and pray. What a wonderful way to start the day, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Mom. You’re so right. I wish I had known that then. You’ve taught us so much about the importance of having faith in God. Where would we all be if you hadn’t placed such an emphasis on going to church, reading the Bible, praying, and believing – really believing in Almighty God.”
“Well, I’m glad I had a good influence on you kids. It makes me proud. Your father taught you many things, especially an appreciation for music and the outdoors, but I tried to guide your faith.”
“Hey, Mom,” I moved on. “There’s one more memory I want to ask you about. It seems silly. Do you remember when I was signing up for classes for my freshman year of college? You came into my room to help me choose. I was eager to take so many hard courses and you cautioned me about taking too much. For some reason, that is a very special memory I have of time with you. I think you knew that college was going to be a rude awakening for me, academically. Thank you for giving me that guidance. Do you remember that brief moment, Mom?”
“Of course I remember that, Janet. Well, today, I remember it. Ask me about it tomorrow and I won’t remember anything.”
Her last comment made me pause. How horrible it must be for her not to be able to remember anything anymore. All these wonderful memories we’d been reliving. I still recalled them, but in reality, Mom no longer could.
“Oh, Mommie,” I cried. “I’m so sorry you have to endure the torture of dementia. I wish I could help you remember.”
Mom was quiet for a long time. Tears welled up in her eyes. Finally, she spoke in earnest, not as a mother speaks to her daughter, but as a person who is deeply grieved speaks to whoever might hear.
“It’s horrible,” she said softly. “I get these little bits and pieces of memories, and then they are gone, as quickly as they come. I don’t really know you children any more. I just pretend like I do because you smile at me. I try to be polite and engage in conversation, but lately, I don’t even know how to construct a meaningful sentence. It’s getting worse, Janet. Some of the words that come out of my mouth are nonsense. That never used to happen. I’m not sure what to do with a spoon and fork anymore. I can hardly even remember my childhood years, and those were the memories I was able to hold on to the longest. I’ve totally forgotten your father, unless I see a picture of he and I together. I barely recall my mother, father and sister. My favorite Bible verses are no longer within reach, and I only recall familiar songs every now and then. It’s like I’m living in some foreign land and everywhere I turn, it’s cloudy. My thoughts are full of fog. I try to be friendly and cordial. I try to look out for the interests of others, but the confusion rules me now. All I can do is look around at my immediate environment and make a few comments about what I notice. At least I still notice plants, trees and pictures. I can still read, but the words just don’t make sense. My love of words evades me, my dear daughter. That’s just how it is.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted so badly to make it all go away for her. All I could think of to do was to pray. So, I bowed my head. I prayed the same prayer I always pray for her when I visit: that God’s healing strength and presence would surround and protect her. I prayed that God would strengthen her in every way, and that the spiritual part of her would connect with the Spirit of the living God. I prayed that God would bring her home to heaven when the time was right. And then I thanked God for allowing she and I to have this extra wonderful day when her memories were clear and her body was whole, if only for a few hours.
“It’s time, Janet,” she whispered. “It’s time for us to return to reality now. It won’t be long, my beloved daughter. I’ll be whole again soon. I’ve so enjoyed this life and the many, many wonderful years I’ve had being your mother. Please keep visiting me. Even if I don’t know who you are, it means the world to me to see your face and feel your touch and have you sit next to me. I feel so safe when you are there. Please don’t stop visiting me.
“I won’t, Mom, I won’t ever stop visiting.” I reassured her. “You’ve been the most wonderful mother, ever. You taught us so much. You were involved and supportive of all we ever did. You graciously endured our selfishness and thoughtlessness. But most importantly, you taught us about the grace and forgiveness and redemption that is ours in Christ Jesus, our Lord. I thank you for that, Mom…Mom? Mommie?”
We were back in the nursing home, sitting in her room together. She was frail again, hunched over and glassy eyed, nearly disappearing into her wheelchair. The blue and white jersey dress had been replaced by black knit pants and a purple sweatshirt; and her brown loafers were now large, fluffy slippers. Her hair was grayish white. Most of her teeth were gone, but she looked up at me and smiled. “Do I know you?” she asked. “My, you have such pretty eyes.
