He could have said . . .

It was a shame he couldn’t have just said “Okay. I will.”

I remember the first time my mother introduced me to her friend.  It was fairly easy to detect the presence of dementia.  But she smiled and greeted us in a classic well trained way.  It was obvious that she immediately forgot the names she was supplied and even the relationship we had to someone she knew.  But oh, she knew my mother.  Mother was familiar and held a spot in her affections.  My mom patiently repeated who we were and what our names were and where we lived.  The other lady at the table was less patient with it all.  When the friend again lost track of who we were, she raised her voice and supplied the information somewhat gruffly.  And yet, there seemed to be an understanding between the three.  Her gruff reply was passed off with just a look of condescendence, a look from the other lady that said “Excuse my friend.  She’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s got a good heart.”

My mom has introduced us to her friend every time we’ve visited her.  We live several hours away and don’t get to visit that often, but when we do we try to break the visit up so that my mother will enjoy it more and we can get a bit more time in before she’s tired and dismisses us.  My mother is 98 years old and lives in a very nice nursing home in another state.  Usually we’ll get there before lunch and visit until she goes to eat.  She likes the routine of eating with her friends and so, we walk her to the dining room, meet her friends, and then go eat lunch somewhere before we return for another short visit that generally ends in her going to her small space for a nap at which time we start the long trip back home.  The visit is worth the travel; she’s my mom.  We just don’t get to make the trip that often.

The recent years have not been kind to my mother.  She has lived a very long and, until the last few years, very active life.  Even in the nursing home she has crocheted throws, worked puzzles and delivered the mail to the patients’ rooms.  But the years are being less kind as they go.  The pain of deterioration and the meds that help control it take their toll.  Her eyes are beginning to deteriorate.  Her hearing is fading quickly.  She tenaciously grasps life and activity and yet becomes frustrated with puzzle solving.  She knows she should remember other people, but dimly recalls them until you put them into a familiar story and then she lights up with memories that connect the dots for a short time.  My mother has always been a fun, social type person and the shrinking of her world is not only discouraging, but frightening to her.  What will come next?

Her friend has Alzheimer’s.  Her son is the person who runs the nursing home, elder care unit my mom lives in.  He has been able to keep his mom there- safe, cared for, even preferred -until recently.  The disease has progressed beyond the facility he runs and so she had to be moved to a facility that focuses solely on the end stages of Alzheimer’s.  It’s a decision that I’m sure he put off as long as possible and hates day by day.

Yet for my mother, there in her shrinking world, it is one more reminder of her own shrinking, deteriorating existence and it is a horrible loss of friendship, even if it was a flawed friendship.   And so her plea –not just a request- that he tell his mom she misses her and she still cares about her and prays for her.

When my sister first told me the story, I was incensed, outraged, as she was.  The man had replied “She won’t remember who you are.  She doesn’t even know who I am.  She won’t know or care if you miss her or pray for her.”

My first thought and what came from my mouth was “He could have just said ‘Okay.  I’ll tell her.’ ”  What an unprofessional reply to a hurting patron in her late 90s!

But then that other voice inside me kicked in.  “But he’s speaking from his own pain and discouragement.  That’s his mother.  We have to have grace for that.”  My sister quietly agreed. 

I am reminded that the afflictions of this world are but a moment in light of eternity, but in light of our temporary lives, they seem eternal.  It is sobering.  It is hope deferred that makes the heart grow faint.  And yet, where there is grace, there is hope.