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Magic Moment
“I good no am…I good no am…”
Mother stumbles down the nursing home’s sterile-smelling hallway like an unsteady toddler, mumbling her own self-condemnation. Her baggy plaid housedress is missing buttons, and its hemline hangs unevenly – evidences of a tormented mind.
My stomach churns as runaway adrenaline inspires galloping emotions: worry, distress, irritation, and fear. Conflict rules my mother’s inner world, I reason. It must not control me.
Look beyond – share your heart.
“Do you want to go for a ride, Mother?”
She stops as if paralyzed and stares at her scuffed leather shoes with the untied laces. My mother is notorious for throwing away her socks, and is not wearing any now. Frozen like a withered statue, she finally turns her head my way and frowns. Her glasses are tucked safely away at the nurses’ station since she insists on bending and chewing them. I wonder if she recognizes me.
Those eyes…lost, vacant, adrift…mirror the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. I dare to return the gaze and find myself plunging momentarily through black pupils into her dark, lonely soul. It is deathly there, empty and cold. The moment lasts only a split second before she stares again at her shoes while I clear my throat.
“How about a picnic, Mother? It’s a pretty, sunny day.”
I hook my arm through hers and we wobble toward the door. The tan oxfords clomp along and seem to accompany her faltering chant.
“I…good…no…am!!”
Look beyond – share your heart.
I force the swinging glass door open with my shoulder and her oxford-clad feet shuffle into the spring sunshine.
The chanting stops almost immediately. I lead her to the car and tuck her in safely, adjust the seat belt, and hurry to the driver’s seat. “Ready? Here we go! I think you’ll enjoy being outside.”
No gesture, no word, no nod of the head. The gulf between us widens and swallows up my hope. Am I connecting at all?
Look beyond – share your heart.
We drive through town and down the familiar hill, winding our way past the creek full of ducks. Soon I pull into a picnic area with a wooden table sitting beneath a canopy of maple trees. As she watches the red-checkered tablecloth billow and then settle down over the table, her eyes seem to brighten. Do I perceive a tiny glimmer of recognition?
She sags on the bench with wilted posture that speaks of deep weariness. “Here, eat this…you’ll feel better.” I place a halved sandwich before her and watch, anxiously.
Her gnarled fingers remove the top layer of bread and then grab for the mayonnaise-coated lettuce. She chews it thoughtfully while dabbling at her mouth, smearing white finger paint on her chin and lips. I choose to ignore the dots of greasy white while she tackles the half-slice of tomato with a similar protocol, this time sending a river of seedy red juice down her chin.
As I watch, I can hardly believe this is my mother – the woman who served many elegant meals on our antique mahogany dining room table. Sadness grips me as I wipe her mouth.
Look beyond – share your heart.
“How about the bread and ham, Mother? Do you want anything else to eat?”
She sits quietly with that blank stare, looking at nothing.
“I know – how about if we walk around a little bit?”
Her legs feel like lead as I swing them around the bench and help her up. I immediately regret not getting a pair of socks back at the nursing home. “We won’t go far…don’t want you to rub any blisters. Remember how you used to show me treasures? Maybe we can find some….”
I hold her arm and we amble together with the wind in our faces. Every third or fourth step I steady her as she stoops down to pick up a leaf, stick, or rock, and then hands each treasure to me. Her senseless jibberish carries excited overtones.
Finally when my pockets are full she stops, looks me squarely in the eye and says in a clear, strong voice, “You know, I think I could walk all the way from Indiana to New York!” Pain evaporates and peace descends. Our hearts meld right there under the sighing tree branches amidst dapples of sunshine.
I clutch the calm and refuse to let go. The breeze blows our hair, the magic vanishes - and she reverts once again into a silent, staggering woman who has lost her way.
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