“Be still, and know that I am God." ~ Psalm 46:10
I’ll never be able to walk into my
Mother’s home and be greeted by her warm embrace. The phone number I called for 50+ years is no
longer in service. I’ll never smell the sweet
aroma of freshly baked peach pie wafting from her kitchen sanctuary again. These thoughts alone bring tears to my eyes,
but she’s still very much alive; just living in sort of an alternate
universe.
I said a quick prayer when we arrived at the memory care
center where Mom now lives. I glanced at
my 5-year-old son, Jason, engrossed in the photo album he’d insisted on
bringing along. He has autism, and
although I’d reminded him that his grandma might not be as interested in the
photos as he was, I couldn’t be sure that he understood.
Clutching the album, he sprung from the car toward the
building’s entrance and marched in. We
hadn’t crossed the lobby when my senses were assailed by the smell of disinfectants.
“Mmm, hamburgers,” Jason noted, sniffing the air as if at a
barbecue.
We passed the nurses’ station and Jason lead us to Mom’s room where she was napping as usual. We tiptoed past her dresser, decorated with a collection of family pictures. I felt sad thinking of how little meaning those images had for her now.
She woke - startled confusion in her eyes : “Who is this little boy?” they questioned. Unfazed, Jason climbed onto her lap and opened his photo album. Mom smiled briefly.
He pointed to pictures of my husband, our children and me. But when he shared pictures of his beloved, cockapoo, Annie, his grin became contagious. Mom’s smile turned to laughter. Her response made little sense, but his grandma was happy – that’s all he needed.
I became known as the “the mother of the boy.” But no matter, she knew who I was and I
thanked God for that special moment.
I looked at my son, battling his own cognitive challenges,
and Mom slowly losing the fight against hers. They snuggled, delighted in both pictures and
each other, connecting on perhaps some unique yet parallel cosmos.
The peace I so badly needed suddenly enveloped me. I’d been worried about Jason understanding
what was happening to his grandma. Yet I
was the one who didn’t understand.
I smelled the nursing home odors. He smelled hamburgers.
I grieved for the mother I had known. He loved the grandma who was here now.
I pulled up a stool next to them and basked in the joy they
shared so effortlessly. The positive
memories flowed unrestrained; good and nourishing, supportive and kind. I’ll Iet the sad ones wander off on their own
and encourage the good ones to blossom and flourish.
