Dan again, with the Mother's Day recap. I got to see Mom around 2:30 p.m. today, and she was at first very slow to talk. I think her speech is more garbled now than before, or perhaps more accurately, takes longer to "ungarble." Still, some things are very clear, some less so.
I sat with Mom out in one of the common areas for a good amount of time, her feeding apparatus close by. We talked a little, then called Viv, but unfortunately Mom was not that talkative. It took me a while until she was talking back and forth with me a little, at first a very little, but enough that I could ask whether she wanted to go outside for a bit, and feel secure I'd get an answer. With a "that would be lovely," I got the nurse to disconnect the feeding apparatus, and off we went to the downstairs patio.
She did seem to like the fresh air, though we still didn't have that much to say to each other. Mark called, and she still said very little. But when we were on our way back in, she began to offer some confused observations. These come and go, but they're helpful (I think.) They help her get her bearings in a way... today she said "You're not my son, you're my grandson." Well, I thanked her for her opinion of my apparently youthful disposition, but corrected her and told her "I'm your son, Danny." Etc. She looked at me intensely at this point. Then she said, "Yes, you're Dan, I know who you are," as if to say "don't be a dolt, of course you are." But she followed up with "do you have a father here?" I explained my father was her husband, who'd passed away some years ago.
On our way back in, one of the other resident's family members helped me with some of the doors, and she asked "Who was that?" I told her, family of one of the other residents. Then a stranger said "Happy Mother's Day." She looked a little threatened by that, and when we got back to the room, she asked who that was. I told her it was just a random family member, being social. She seemed to accept that.
Then for the last hour or so I think she was very with it. She looked very sad and I asked her if she was sad (a much more successful strategy, usually, than asking "what's wrong.") She said "yes." Then I went to "what's wrong," and got a reply I didn't understand. I asked if the nursing home made her sad, tried a couple of other things. She said "I'm only sad when you talk to me."
Well that was just a fine comeuppance. So I asked whether she thought I talked down to her (When she's not yet conversing I feel that I over-do the non-threatening gentle tone, and when she's "with it" I wonder if she thinks I'm talking to her like a child.) She shook her head. I told her I love her, and all her children love her, and she said "I know." She started talking about my father - "my husband" to her of course - and said she thought people had asked her about him. I recounted the conversation we'd had earlier. She said he passed away over 30 years ago. Pretty spot-on.
Her eyes got wet again, and I asked her if she missed him sometimes. No reply. I said "I know sometimes you fought but everybody does." She said something with the word "hurt" in it. (I'd checked with her a few times if anything physically hurt, so I thought she must mean the other kind.) I asked if she meant her and her husband had each other, and she nodded... I assured her we always hurt people we love, even if we don't really mean it, even if we mean it at the time but don't really mean it. She was still wet-eyed. I asked if she were sad. She said, "no, happy." I said that makes me very happy, and for the moment, that was that.
Somewhere along the way I noticed a beautiful flower arrangement Mark, Leah, and Debbie sent, so I called him back and told him they were beautiful. This gave Mom the chance to thank him as well.
She told me as I was going she had to talk to all of us. I asked if she meant getting us all together, and she said "it doesn't matter." I told her she'd keep having the chance to talk to all of us, and reminded her that Mark and Leah were coming down next Saturday.
I have only my subjective idea of this visit to describe, and perhaps wrongly, I think I know some things from it. One, that Mom's still emotionally active in there. Two, that she's got more or less connection to the facts of her life at different times, and that on a good day, some patience can be richly rewarded. And three, that there is no way of knowing whether one is writing one's own narrative wholecloth around a scanty framework of actual details.
I do feel fairly sure that she knows she's loved, and I think that this is a good thing.
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