Tag Archives: memory care

What Is a Weekend…At a Memory Care Home?

IMG_2461I missed the Luau Party date on Arden Courts’ activities calendar. So, I was surprised when at Mom’s on a Tuesday to find a luau was to occur later, complete with sweet and sour meatballs, tiki cups, hula dancing and steel drums. Sadly, I could not partake. I wished Arden would have hosted the event on a Saturday or Sunday, despite the fact I had been inconsistent in my attendance on weekends.

Arden Courts was not responsible for my social life. I handled that fairly well. But they were responsible for Mom’s, and by proxy, that meant me too.

I prided myself in my near-perfect attendance for major events that occurred at Arden Courts. With a flexible schedule and even more flexible husband, I have attended Teddy Bear teas, senior proms, Valentine’s Day dances, chili cook-offs (a risky proposition) and Catholic holiday masses.

My schedule with Mom was somewhat regular, somewhat not, and somewhat dependent on the weather. I charted my time based on if I could urge her outside or not, and how long one of us could withstand the stinky heat. Then, when winter blew in, as if Mom’s disposition was not already thrown into disarray, doors locked and Mom and I were stuck staring at a sun that clearly quit its job in December, January and February.

When Mom first moved to Arden Courts, I diligently attended to her every other day. On weekends, I dropped in twice – most weekends were only two days long. Thus, I had tried out all the activities. I actually watched Cleveland Browns-Cincinnati Bengals football games, complete with popcorn, in the community room with Mom because it was less painful than to view the game with my husband and son, and their pithy Cleveland jokes running in the background.

Family members and friends struggled with ways to stay engaged with loved ones, but I didn’t. I loved singing with the Merry Moores because of their corny humor. I loved Chaplain Geoff and his booming voice. I relished in Friday mornings, because the activity was like Jazzercise, only from the seated position. I called it a Dance Party, but Arden Courts called it exercise. Mom never, NEVER, moved an inch if she didn’t want to, so swinging to Jerry Lee Lewis, just to get her heart rate up, was not going to happen. Still, I was there.

Later, I started missing days on the weekend. Then, I skipped a full weekend, but showed up Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, out of guilt, obligation and the fact that I had missed out on activities like the luau or race car simulations or Irish dancing.

And I told myself, “Its OK. You’re working too.” I secretly confessed my sins to my rearview mirror, instead of waiting for the priest to arrive at Catholic mass at Arden.

I missed one Mother’s Day. Possibly Easter. A Fourth of July (read more about why that date was important). One Christmas Eve (Try taking out an 80 something-year-old in southern Ohio sleet and see if your loved one speaks to you again.)

Mom didn’t know one day from the next. She didn’t know if she missed hula-hoop class, for which she might be thankful. Or if she skipped communion, which the Eucharist tended to stick in her throat since she had been prescribed a soft mechanical diet.

But I knew. And I knew Mom had never missed a track meet of mine. She postponed cancer treatments to travel to Oregon when Davis was born. Mom gave up weeks to help during my first husband’s cancer diagnosis and in my next days as single mother.

She had a long record of showing up. “Wherever there was the need,” she said. That included toting six-dozen, neatly-boxed Italian cookies to Cincinnati for my first wedding reception, and a repeat of that Herculean effort for reception number two. She knew how to show up. And she filled that space with who she was.

These days, Mom and I have to get creative in how we filled time. Her hourglass rotated unceasingly, as if before the sands of time ran out, the glass automatically flipped when neither of us were looking.

download-2In those moments, time became seamless and nearly weightless, as a scene from Downton Abbey with Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, played in my mind, complete with British accent.

At the dinner table, Matthew Crawley is speaking about a job.

His father-in-law, Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, is incredulous. “You do know I mean to involve you in the running of the estate?”

“There are plenty of hours in the day,” Matthew responds. “And of course, I’ll have the weekend.”

The acerbic Viola interjects. “What…is a weekend?”

It was hard to lose hours with Mom, who couldn’t comprehend the dimensions of her space and time. But the sands of time kept rotating, and it was only silly humans who attached actual schedules to our time to love.

It was a Friday. It had been three days since my last visit. Mom was seated outside, in the shade. I tugged at her sleeve and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, beautiful.”

FullSizeRender (33)Mom shot daggers at me with her hazel eyes, as if accusing me of skipping church on Sunday and daring me to produce a church bulletin with the current date.

Maybe she still knows what is a weekend after all.

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Still Saving Seats in Old Age

FullSizeRender-28Big, burly Jack moved closer to the adjacent chair.  Jack was saving that seat in the activities’ room for Emma. But Emma was already gone.

With youthful-bobbed white hair, Emma had been a resident at Mom’s care home. Always upbeat, Emma never stopped smiling, could still stroll the path at the former Blue Ash airport, and waxed poetically about times when she was little.

Emma’s husband had passed away, prior to her entering Arden Courts. Rumor was, Emma also had a boyfriend named “Jack” before her family had admitted her to the care home. When Emma arrived at Arden, she was soon found seated in the westside parlor with another resident, Big Jack. The two could be seen finding humor in themselves (see Vignettes from a Care Home), gazing out the window, or interacting with visitors and staff.

The parlor faced the secure door. Oftentimes, upon my entry, I gravitated towards Emma and Jack first, before seeing my Mom, and offered a hug, a laugh, a where have you been sort of joke to turn the tables on their lives and mine. Their presence, an unusual lightness in their togetherness as Jack was always seated on the chair and Emma on the love seat, lifted and warmed me before I would learn what condition or mood I might find Mom in for the day.

It was as if the two had already shared lifetime together.

Both residents possessed moderate cognitive impairment. For caregivers and staff, who care for more difficult cases and love each person for who they are, residents like Emma and Jack were subtle reminders of the lives residents used to lead, the persons they used to be before they slipped out of those skins. Emma and Jack were also tokens of how sneaky and impactful love can be.

Their joy in each other’s company was evident, palpable, such that I often sat with Mom in their company to relish in that bliss. Theirs was the purest form of love.

Emma had found joy in someone who she didn’t know where he had worked. Jack had discovered delight without knowing how many children Emma had birthed. Neither had known where the other one lived or was born or what was important to them, though I suspect some topics might have risen to the surface and then soon were let go. The only thing each of them remembered was love.

One morning, I arrived to learn Emma’s son had moved her to another care home. That event occurred often, when the money ran out, when the siblings fought, when the individual progressed into a new phase of the disease.

There was never a guarantee that the first place or the best place would be the last place.

Now, I see Jack sitting behind his walker in his usual chair near the exit door, as if ready to depart. The caregivers informed me he is still saving a seat for Emma, yet his disposition is as corny as ever. “Dad” jokes come to mind. Jack still returns hugs when I offer my arms. When I say, “I’m off to go see my mom,” Jack responds, “Tell her I said hello, would ya?”

As for Emma, love had left her time and again. But she didn’t act like a person who would ever lose the capacity to love. Emma will offer and find love at her next place, of that I am certain.

Perhaps Emma’s time with the residents was to give just that, the ability to love again.

And the empty seat next to Jack? The ratio of women to men in memory care centers is 3:1. Sadly, plenty of women will arrive to take Emma’s place. But I hope Jack stands (or sits) his ground, and doesn’t relinquish that chair, as a reminder of how fleeting and precarious unions can be, and yet still be profound.

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