October 8, 2015 

I dropped mom off at a nearby nursing home just 5 days ago. We parted tearfully. Mom didn’t understand why I was leaving her there. The home looked clean enough, but the floor she was on was clearly reserved for the demented of varying ages and conditions. Apart from mom’s woeful lack of memory, she is otherwise fine. Her instincts remain the same. She frets about cleaning dishes and putting things away and turning off lights. She demands that shutters be closed and curtains be drawn and doors be locked. She scolds when I go onto the porch without shoes or socks. She urges me to wear sweaters on the warmest days. (Some things never change. I was made to carry sweaters in mid-summer throughout my childhood and teen years!) And she asks where I bought articles of clothing I wear and how much I paid for them. The more expensive in her book, the better. She used to brag about the value of the Waterford crystal she invested in ages ago: 24 place settings—8 for herself, 8 for Margie, and 8 for me. Unfortunately, my nieces want no part of it. Too formal.

But there was mom—among the truly demented. I slammed things around the room, while the on-duty nurse looked. I admitted that I was upset about leaving mom. The woman merely replied, “I can see that.” Later, Lori, the nurse from the hospice facility, came in to assist. Lori made some good suggestions about lowering the bed so that mom could get in or out without incident. I began to feel more comfortable. It was good to have someone there with me who knew what mom needed. An assistant at the home had me fill out an inventory form, after which, I tearfully drove home.

I spent the next four days driving around Lancaster with my friends from college. The three of us had a wonderful time. We did everything from twist pretzels to eating ice cream at a creamery and visiting a chocolate factory. On the last day, we took the steam engine in Strasburg for a lovely ride through the countryside. Each night, we retreated to my back porch, where we drank wine and supped on salads and organic veggies and grilled whatever. It was a wonderful reunion—our fourth in as many years. I had been concerned about having enough room and being able to do enough with them. But this area is rife with things to do and see. I need not have worried, especially after my friend Nita had laid out our routes and carefully marked every spot of interest on a map. It will take some doing to exhaust the potential of Lancaster and Berks.

On Thursday evening, I drove over to the home to fetch mom. One of the aids said that she and mom became fast friends. When she discovered that mom is Italian, she asked, “How do you make your sauce?” I had a good laugh over that one. Recipes for sauce are at the heart of every Italian home. How much better to break the ice than to discuss cooking with an Italian woman. Mom had been in excellent hands.

Back at home, mom had absolutely no recollection of ever having been away. No memory of the facility at all or anyone in it. She will be returning again in a week for 11 days. All of her friends from hospice will visit and make sure she is well taken care of, but mom won’t remember a thing. Maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.