Long Lost

My ex-mother-in-law was calling the kids in search of company. She's been in a nursing home for a few months, and once in awhile the loneliness is too much to bear. No one had time to visit her just then, and the home is only a block away, and I wasn't doing anything anyway, so at 8 pm I put on my coat and walked over.

That time of night the doors are locked, so you have to push *123 on a keypad to get inside. I was glad I remembered this from my son's newspaper-delivery-boy days. It was too cold to stand outside. A fetid odor hit me as soon as I walked in the door. Lillian's room is down one long corridor, then left a few more doors. I made my way down the hallway, the thermostats set way too high making the air thick enough to taste. In the middle of the hallway sat a thin woman in a wheelchair. Her back was straight, hands folded in her lap. She had downy white hair combed to frame her face. I saw she was wearing pink lipstick with a blush of orange rouge on her cheeks. Her slate eyes had the look a woman whose memory had been wiped clean. As I approached, she studied me. I smiled at her, and when I did, her face lit up. She held open her palms as if she was accepting a gift and then put them to her cheeks. She let out a sigh and said, "Oh my, to what do I owe this?"

I stopped. I didn't know if I should pretend I was who she thought I was. Should I ask questions? Strike up a conversation? She made me hurt. I wanted to help, thought about pretending, playing along. But I'm terrible at faking. "It's so good to see you," she said. I patted her shoulder. "It's good to see you too," I said. At a loss for further conversation, I hurried on to my ex-mother-in-law's room.

Who had I been? Her daughter? Grand-daughter? Friend? What world did we inhabit? How long had she been waiting for me?

I sat in Lillian's room for more than an hour. We chatted about the holidays and the kids and then the conversation came inevitably around to my marriage with her son. She misses having me for a daughter, especially since she's not warming up to my replacement. "What do you think happened?" she says. "Bill thinks you didn't communicate enough." I find this interesting, since we've never really talked about it, and now that nine years have passed since the divorce I doubt we ever will. "For me it was about money," I say. "I was worn out with living in poverty, never having enough."

"That's what I told him." She's comforted by knowing, and by knowing that she knew.

She tells me she's ready to go home, but the doctor wants her to wait a couple more weeks. She tells me she met a woman who carries around a babydoll, pretends that it's real. "A grown woman," she says, exasperated. She doesn't know whether to ignore or acknowledge the doll, but she worries if she fuels the illusion the woman won't get any better. I wonder, what could it hurt?

It's getting late, and the nurse needs to dress her for bed, so we say our good-byes. There's a lot more I could say to her. I could explain myself in more depth, tell her that I never meant to hurt anyone. I just couldn't keep up the facade any longer. Then I think about the woman in the hallway again, and I decide that on my way out the door, I'm going to speak to her. I'm going to ask her her name, and talk about the weather, and I'll be whoever she wants me to be, because in her world, it matters.

I give Lillian a hug, a genuine hug. I've never not loved her. Then I put my coat back on and start again down the long hallway toward the door. I look for the woman in the wheelchair, but she's no longer there, and I wonder, if I ever see her again will I know it's her?

Comments

[Terri B.]

Your post reminds me of visits to my Grandmother. She has been in a nursing home for about a year now. It has been difficult for all concerned and by looking around I can see the difficult story repeated. My Grandmother carries a doll around with her sometimes. She thinks it is her daughter most of the time. Grandma has Alzheimers and her illusions are very real to her and "in her world, it matters" (I loved the way you put that thought). She will never get better and so there is no point in trying to straighten out her perceptions. Visiting her has been quite a lesson for me in loving people in all their brokenness and in treating all with dignity.

I keep thinking about the lady in the wheelchair, waiting for someone, with her face made up. You may have made her very happy by that small interaction and gesture of human touch.

Lovely post.