I Hope this is the Last Time I see you…a love story

I Hope this is the Last Time I see you…

...a love story

The elevator has that same sterile smell it always has, nothing here ever changes. The doors open to an empty reception desk, all of the aides were out and about, tending to the needs of those who have no idea they need help, no idea why they are crying, or angry, or laughing. They have no idea why they are there, or anywhere.

I am constantly in awe of the staff’s patience and almost absent emotion. Is it simply a job to them? Do they become attached to their patients? Are they always this kind and gentle? In any and all cases I appreciate all they give of themselves, and do what I cannot.

The gathering of women near the desk are greeted by my warm smile and undeniable charm, some in wheelchairs, other slouched in chairs, some sitting tall and proud. There is a part of me that likes to believe that they know me well and adore me as much as their words and groans and faces say. That part of me is quickly disappointed. Philippa is sobbing, as she always does. A few new faces stare as I walk down the hall, blank faces with smiles. I almost can hear them asking me to take them home, get them out of there, off that floor, out of their own mind. I believe no matter how far along in the disease they are, that that there is a piece of their minds and bodies still aware, split seconds of reality that fill their eyes with hope…and fear…and anxiety. I have to believe in those split seconds of reality, it is what keeps me coming back here. Faint sounds of cries and moans become deafening.

I turn the corner to the recreation room looking for her, I can’t help but wish that THIS time she will jump out of the chair and yell my name, “Eddie” ,with tears in her eyes and that hug that twisted you like a wrestler. I never figured out where she got her strength to hug like that! When my kids were young, they called it the MeeMee hug. What they wouldn’t do to have that hold again.

I approach her as always with a smile and say, “Hi Ma”, just as I have for 52 years. She looks up, a half bent smile then puts her head down. I kiss her head with a touch of disappointment. I ask her how she is, how she is feeling, what she has been doing. I tell her about Monica and the kids and our life together. Every time I am there, I tell her how proud she would be of Kay, Hannah and Patrick and how she would love the adults they have become. I tell her about work and try to overcome the stares and noise from the others. I want them to be quiet, this is our time, please don’t interrupt.

My mind wanders as I try to find some words she will react to. It always goes to when I was little and I was petrified beyond words of the movie “The Wizard of Oz”. To be truthful, the movie still terrifies the little kid in me. The show was always televised on a Sunday night, I dreaded it for weeks. To comfort me, or maybe herself, my mother would always sit and play games with me when the show was on and keep my older siblings from terrorizing me as they always did. We would play the game TROUBLE over and over in the kitchen, the sound of the popping dice somehow drowned out the sound of the horror that movie brought to my five year old mind. She would play, and keep my mind occupied, my fears contained, and my heart full. For years it became a memory between us, we would speak of it often. I wish I could do the same for her now, but there are no popping dice to drown any noise here.

There is a scene in the movie that haunts me now more than ever. Dorothy is in the castle tower, locked in by the witch. She looks in the crystal ball, afraid and alone when suddenly in the ball comes the vision of her Auntie Em looking for her, calling her name. Dorothy cries with joy and yells back, “I am here, I am here”…and then the vision fades away as quickly as it came, replaced with the horror of the wicked witch. That scene is the closest comparison I can find to having a parent with Alzheimer’s. You look into their eyes like it is a crystal ball and for a brief moment, you see the person you remember, they seem to be looking for you too.

I see my mother, I see her hanging clothes out on the line as I walk across Normal Street. I see her knitting in her chair, nodding off to sleep and then waking up for the news. I see all five feet of her behind the wheel of the big Cadillac she drove. I see her on the porch every time we pulled in the driveway from Canada, Pittsburgh, South Carolina with the big wave and big blue eyes. I see her eyes all filled up and crying saying goodbye as we left. I see her saying her daily rosary in the morning as she always did before she got out of bed. I see her, I see her, I see her. She is gone, her beautiful blue eyes are vacant again. Come back Ma, I am here.

 I very seldom, if ever, talk about my mother and Alzheimer’s. My thought is that if you have never had someone you love suffer from it, there are truly no words to express what it does to a person and those she loves. Likewise, if you have had someone you love afflicted with it, no words are needed, and it is a silent understanding between us all.

I rub her hands with some hotel cream, they feel like tissue paper that you are afraid will rip. I touch her cheek and feed her the chocolate milkshake I brought her. I sing her a song or two, she seems to like that as she taps my hand as I hold it. Unlike most of my visits, I start to fill up and cry. Not the dramatic sob kind, rather the water that slowly leaks out of your eyes kind. It is awkward and uncomfortable for me.

It is November, it is cloudy and cold and sad and I want so much to be somewhere that this is all not a reality. Living six hundred miles away, I don’t get to see her often. I want to sit and have coffee with her, or a gin and tonic. I want to make her the traditional Mother’s Day lobster. I want to thank her for a million things but mostly for just being my mother, and for being my love and support until the time came when I went off on my own. For fixing earaches and beestings, colds and broken bones, for knowing when I was not ok and celebrating every wonderful moment of my life with me. For being Ma.

I stare into her eyes and tell her she does not belong here anymore. It tears me apart to say the words, but I mean them. She should be with my Dad, the man who was her everything. After all of her years of novenas, prayers, masses, and Lenten sacrifices, I wonder why this is how Kay Burke has to live her last years. There are no answers to any of my questions, nothing ever changes.

I give her the last sip of milkshake and wipe her mouth. It is time to go. I tell her I will be flying out in the morning and that I will be back in March.

I kiss her, I tell her I love her very much and that I hope I never see her again. Somehow I know she understands.