home: part five

When I call Mom last night she says--"In a few minutes we're...you know...going there...we're going to leave...going to go there...there."

"Where?" I ask Mom.

"Home," she says. "Home...home."

"Where's that?" I ask, not sure if she's talking about her current home in Clyde Hill or her old home in Medina, the one she sold to the State.

Mom can't answer me. She remembers nothing of her day--who came to see her, what she had for lunch. She's sure that any minute now she and Mulu are going to "walk" out of the Mirabella (though she isn't clear of where she is right now) and go home. "Walk" is the word she's uses because she's sure that she can still walk even though last I checked she can hardly move her legs. And I think, maybe Mom's legs are her phantom limbs--her thinking self has yet to get caught up to her feeling self.

When I get to the Mirabella today, Mom's excited to tell me about what she did last night--she walked to the "bridge," presumably the SR520 bridge (the neighborhood where her home was located until March of this year), by herself at 10:00 at night. Mula wasn't there and Mom reports that she was afraid, being by herself. She tells me about how everything at the bridge is "different," though she can't tell me how exactly. When Mom's talking, she's certain that this really happened--this is not a dream, she lets me know. This is her life.

And, in fact, this is her life--the phantom life she lives when her mind is muddled because she's slipped back into her Alzheimer's world, the one where she is by herself and the rest of the world is at bay. For the six hours I am there today, Mom remains in her netherworld. We go to PT and she spends the entire hour with her eyelids shut--either it takes too much effort to keep them open or she's decided that the world of her making, her private "crazy" world, is more interesting and agreeable then the world that Beverly is trying to induct her into, the world where her muscles are of use and her eyes are necessary for locomotion. This world requires effort and pain--Mom's not sure she's up for this. Nonetheless, she manages to stay erect on the edge of the therapy bench for nearly half a minute--this is progress (note the photo of Mom balancing). When I take Mom outside to visit the Cascade Pea Patch again, her eyes continue to be shut. It's a fine sunny day, though Mom can barely acknowledge this--she's wrapped up tight in her red shawl, the one my brother gave her for Christmas last year. We sit on one of the gravel paths--me squatting and Mom in her chair--and watch for the brown-grey flotilla of mice to come out, to crawl over lettuce and rosemary, zucchini and tomatoes, scavenging for supper before dark. They must weigh very little, as their bodies hardly sway the plants that host their feast. We've been told there are thousands of these petite mice--their bodies no longer than two inches. They feast off of the community garden and are officially referred to as pests. Nonetheless, they provide a reason for looking, a reason for why Mom must open her eyes. I'm grateful.

"There's one," she says, and I'm surprised, this is the most alert she's been all day.

"Yes," I say, keeping a running tally for her--so far it's fourteen mice and we've been here ten minutes.

When we saunter back to the Mirabella, we pass by the elm trees again, out in front of the Mirabella lobby--their yellow haze of color has deepened since the last time we went for a "walk." "Look," I say to Mom, pointing to the color, and I'm surprised when she returns with clarity--"Yes...more yellow than before." 'Yes," I say, squeezing Mom's shoulder.

When we get Mom back to her room, she's exorbitantly tired--has been all day. But nevertheless she stops at the doorway before wheeling in and reads off the sign--"Dorin Schuler"--and I feel relieved: at least she knows where she is for this split-second moment. Mom didn't have much sleep last night--she woke up crying several times, her eyes puffy-red pin cushions. Sleep makes a difference for Mom--affects her moods. After easing her into bed, I sit on the edge of her duvet and watch her drift into sleep. Every now and then her eyelids flutter open, appraising her room, her situation. I tell her--"Mom, I'm here," and then she drifts off again, reassured.

Just before dinner--"Roasted Chicken w/ Olives, Roasted Beets, Quince Pilaf"--Lorna and I rouse her, coax Mom's eyes open so she can be alert enough to eat what's put in front of her. Nevertheless, her eyes remain shut, even through the meal, so Lorna must anticipate with her fork when Mom's mouth will open and close, lips pursing like a fish. Most of Mom's dinner goes untouched.

"Need something beautiful," she mumbles between bites, "but we need to go...walk to the...you know...to the....the bridge...okay...let's just go."

"Mom," I say back to her--"we have dinner to eat, before you go anywhere."

"Okay" she says quickly in response, ingesting a forkful of beets.

"I don't know where to get the..." she starts up again, half-way through her chew. "I think it's the best thing to do...is to walk, you know...walk up...when we...we need to make this thing much better...make it look like it's good."

Mom pauses then, as Lorna sneaks another forkful of chicken into her mouth. "Sneak" is the operative word. While Mom's too tired and disorientated to feed herself, she's sure that she wants nothing of her dinner. She has no problem communicating this.

"Come on, let's go," she resumes with an edge to voice, like she's tired of messing around and means business now. "Let's get going!"

"Where are we going, Mom?"

"Home," she says, "walk to the bridge...but it's different. I had something....well we have to straighten up this mess...I think you are spending too much time..."

As her voice trails off, I ask her--"what am I spending too much time at, Mom?"

She can't tell me. But I want to know. Desperately. I'm still her daughter.

"Let's get going," she resumes, "we're going to walk up to the...to the...let's get moving...no...no...not here...because have to be sure I am there...well I think....you know...I am way over my...you know...head...don't know how I got..."

Mom's confusion is disheartening. It's been a while since she's been this muddled. My mind begins to run through the options--what could be producing this level of confusion, something completely separate from her word-finding issues? Extreme exhaustion? Dehydration? Urinary Track Infection? Mom hasn't been drinking much since she got here--one to two glasses of fluid per day, as compared to eight to ten when she's home. Mom's urine is clear, however, so maybe there is nothing wrong at all. But again maybe there is. So I go track down the floor nurse, Anne, and ask for a catheter order to do a urine sample, just in case. All of this will take time. In the meantime, Mom needs her sleep, so I order her meds early.

When I leave, Mom can't acknowledge my going. I say "goodbye" twice and she doesn't turn her head. When I smack my lips against hers, she doesn't kiss back. I remind her of the surprise I have brewing for her tomorrow late afternoon, after class--something I've been talking about all afternoon, though the details of which I have left for a surprise. Anticipation is good medicine for the blues.

My last view of Mom is the color of her cheeks, blanched the color of her sheets: how her skin recedes into her linens like those camouflage moths, the ones where life depends on a seamlessness between beating-wing and host. From a distance--the distance between my two able feet and her two disabled ones--Mom could be any body. Any old body a long ways from home.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifwithmom.com