I grasped Mom’s bike to keep her from falling and realized the end of our riding days drew near. We shared a tandem until that too became too difficult for her. We still had plenty to do: Foster Park walks, movie shows, YouTube dances, YMCA workouts, and Dairy Queen runs—“The day I don’t like chocolate is the day I’m dead.”
With Mom’s Frontal Lobe Dementia, one major difficulty that requires Einsteinian brilliance and biblical wisdom has always been departures. Taking her back to the memory care facility and/or attempting to exit the building without her amplifying into volatility. “You aren’t going to leave me in this prison? How could you! I’m going with you. Take me home!” She can no longer articulate with this kind of language, but dropping her off or simply leaving her after a visit still necessitates the black-ops creativity of a Mission Impossible movie.
After my sister and I take Mom out, returning to the residency, we formulate tactics to navigate good-byes. I usually go inside with Mom, while Rochelle waits outside with a good magazine. My escape may take up to an hour or longer, but it is much easier to coordinate a peaceful opportunity to leave if I work alone.
Circa first year of journey: Mom, Rochelle and I.
Last summer, returning to the facility, I helped Mom out of the car and said good-bye to my sister, “Thanks for the visit. See you soon. Love you.”
“Scott, hello? We drove here in my car. You don’t have a ride home, my brother. Remember?”
“Yes, Rochelle, I’m acting.”
She broke into laughter, a humorous touch to a delicate scenario.
When Mom lived on the secure, 10th floor of the downtown Holiday Inn, which became an assisted living facility, Cora and I often had to orchestrate our getaways, which led to some Keystone Cop moments as The Kid dashed toward the elevator, and I dove toward the stairs. We crisscrossed in the hallway shouting desperate whispers as to which escape route to take. While this may sound awful to the uninitiated or stringent moralist, after a few hundred visits…better this than leave Mom in an escalating mood that causes no little trouble for the staff left behind to calm her. Mom will forget her granddaughter’s and my visit within a few minutes, but if agitated, she can remain ill-tempered for a woeful, long time.
We learned years ago that visits needed to include a generous amount of exit time, along with thought-through departure strategies and contingency plans.
At a wonderful facility that Mom stayed in for 4 ½ years, they had an original, working jukebox. We sang and danced to great tunes through the years. Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill,” Elvis Presley’s “Treat Me Nice,” and the Mills Brother’s slow moving “Lazy River” received major playtime among our favorites.
One particular evening, I wanted to get home for a football game. I could watch the game in Mom’s room, but her channel changer vanished—not unusual. Small items such as a remote appear and disappear with regularity in a memory care facility. “Scott, this place is a Den of Thieves!” She snaps while wearing someone else’s necklace that I have never seen before. I could not negotiate a peaceful exit, and her familiar departure escalation began to commence. “You’re not leaving me!” In desperation, I pulled her into the residency lounge with the big screen TV, so I could watch the big game. But without my knowledge or consent, the facility had moved the jukebox from the Dining Room into the lounge area. When Mom saw it, she wanted to dance.
The moon stood still
On Blueberry Hill
And lingered until
My dream…
…of watching football dashed on the rocks of frustration. Albeit, grandiosely irritated, I swung Mom around the dance floor to the Andrew Sister’s “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and a cornucopia of Oldies. Perhaps, with a mother’s intuition, she sensed my annoyance. Out of the blue, at an unexpected moment, Mom looked right at me and said, “Scott, you will remember this someday and be glad that you spent this time with me.”
Bam. She could have hit me upside the head with her fist (which has happened, but that’s another story). I stood there blinking like the Grinch on Mount Crumpit, after he hears the Who’s down in Whoville singing and finally gets it.
“Love is patient.”
Caregiving continues to teach me this.
The only person who can still tempt me to cuss and cuss a lot…is my mother. In the words of a Vince Vaughn character, “Mom! We’re on high alert here! … You do not even realize!” And yet, these moments in the twilight years of struggle, I would not trade.
I knew the big football game would fade from my memory, but I have not forgotten her words. At the Final Departure, she’ll be right; I will be glad we spent a little extra time together dancing.
The best departures are like the one that happened on Mom’s birthday last March. Still too cold to venture outside, we walked around the facility, where she knew no stranger. She greeted all with “Love you, honey,” and I attempted to follow her example.
“Beautiful baby,” I said to the lady sitting in the hallway as she stroked the furry ears of the Easter rabbit in her arms.
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile.
After our birthday stroll, Mom and I spent the next couple hours with the laptop watching Flash Mobs, snippets of Bob Hope Specials, and a mix of sing-alongs with Perry Como, Tony Bennett, Dinah Shore and Doris Day. I stayed until she tired out, which to be honest, required the patience that other responsibilities won’t always allow. After singing most of the musical numbers to Singing in the Rain, she was ready for bed. I tucked her into the covers the way she used to do for me. We said our prayers like we did as a family those many years ago. She can still recite, with a little help, the “Our Father” and “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.” Afterwards, I hugged her and returned to her the goodnight kiss that she gave to me fifty years ago.
“What do I do now?”
“You go to sleep, Mom.”
“Oh. Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
on departing
throwing our bikes
on the car rack
she says to me
where do I live
we start for home
stare at the road
sun going down
you’ll be fine Mom
placing her hand
on my shoulder
she starts to cry
I know we will
Moments of Mom 