Like a Child

Mother lay in her bed half asleep, her chin tucked against her chest.  The heating unit hummed away blasting tropical temperatures into the room despite the ice and snow outside the window.  Mother stirred as we entered and reached out her hand to me.  So like a little child wanting to be picked up and cared for.

I sat on the bed beside her, and my husband sat in the chair beside the bed.  Today was a quite day.  Only one or two words formed slowly on Mother's lips, and even her smile was slow in coming.  But the iron grip of her good hand was as strong as ever.  She grabbed my hand and tucked it under her chin.  If I moved at all, she grabbed again and held my hand tight against her as if she needed the security of our presence.

So, we sang to her.  We sang Joy to the World, Jingle Bells, White Christmas, Hark the Harold Angels Sing in uneven harmony, and then she began to sing in a growling whisper, "We three kings...."  That was all she could manage, so we took up the song for her.  Her lips would form a word now and then, and she would look at us with the fascination of a child keeping her eyes on our lips and trying to figure out what would come next.  Then she closed her eyes, still gripping my hand, and there it was.  The faint half crooked smile like a baby just falling asleep.  She was happy and content.  Music, touch and a room the temperature of the tropics.  Merry Christmas, Mother.

Celebration

The holiday rush is upon us.  Of course, that means nothing to Mother.  Her days are blessedly the same.  It is the routine, the sparseness, the dependability of day after day that gives her comfort.  Big changes can be frightening for her.  Sometimes just walking with me to the Coke machine that is located off of her hall is scary for her. When we walk to the lobby to look at the fireplace and the electric logs churning away the same pattern of "flames," she wants to know where she is.  Sameness.  She leads a narrow, circumspect life.  She lives for meals and for the familiar faces of family.

Last night was the holiday family meal at the home.  The staff had dressed Mother in a Christmas top, but she had not really noticed the preparations and had no idea what was going on.  For her, it meant that we would eat together, but even then the most important thing was that it was dinner time.  We sat at the long tables covered with the holiday red plastic table cloths watching the swirl of adults and children there to eat with their loved ones. Mother watched the babies.  She has always loved babies.  But when her tray came the only thing she noticed was the cup of ice cream and the cobbler.

All concept of party ended there at the Christmas plate before her.  Her total focus was on her food.  She would smile once in a while, and she used her fork when I reminded her.  But that spoonful of ice cream became her total world.   Even when she mixed it with her mashed potatoes, she was completely engrossed with her plate.  That was her party.  The pleasure of eating in that one moment.

How narrow her world has become.  To have only a vague awareness of celebration.  To see the faces of family and be unable to interact beyond a smile and a comment.  To concentrated on the next bite of food and have that be your best pleasure and celebration. To exist only for the moment.

We left having enjoyed the time with her and the efforts of celebration provided by the home.  But deep down, I feel hollow.  Mother was there, she smiled, she howled with pleasure.  But there was a sense on incompleteness because she wasn't fully there,  the smile was vague, and the pleasure was only momentary.  Sometimes we wish that the Christmas rush would be over.  But when I think of all that the holiday season demands, I am thankful that I am aware.  I am thankful that I can celebrate and enjoy the multitude of activities that I share with family and friends.  The alternative to awareness is so narrow and small, and I mourn that Mother has lost the sense of celebration.

Hark the Herald Angels Sing

Christmas is truly celebrated at a nursing home.  There are beautifully decorated trees everywhere, all kinds of Santas and Nativity scenes, and most of all there is music.  So many groups come in to perform for the residents, and their musical gifts make the season all the brighter.

Mother loves the music, and she loves to "dance" to it. Her dancing consists mostly of swaying and wiggling her hips. Once in a while she will try a twirl, but that usually leads to her yelling "whoa Nelly!" and having to sit again because she made herself dizzy.

Last week she was very emotional.  A local high school show choir came to sing.  Mother cried loudly through most of the performance.  Her face turned red, the tears flowed, she chewed up her tissue, and she was just beside herself with emotion.  All of those young people singing just swamped her emotional capabilities, but she loved it.  Of course she thought the boys were her grandsons and tried to call out to them.  Those young men were so kind to come to her and hold her hand for a moment.  What amazed me was her ability to collect herself after the program and thank the director for coming to sing.  For that brief second her manners showed through all of her emotion. 

Today I sat with Mother and some of the other residents as they listened to a man play his keyboard and sing.  As I looked at these residents, so diminished from who they once were, their faces beamed, and they did their best to sing along to Away in a Manger and Rockin around the Christmas Tree and Jingle Bells.  They sat together and held hands bringing comfort to each other, and all the while Mother danced around them and was happy.  I think I know why the angels were sent to Bethlehem to sing good news.  Music is the language that reaches us most deeply, and even in the depths of dementia one can sing and rejoice and be happy.  If just for a moment, we can have love and joy.