In the morning I read her 2 a.m. text to my sister: "Can you turn off the nightlight, please? It's too bright for me." She's not at her daughter's house; she's in a long-term facility for a thirty day respite stay. Because we have been caregivers for the last seven months, my sister and I, and we need respite.
- a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant."the refugee encampments will provide some respite from the suffering"
As quickly as I can I am out the door with a phone charger, more word-search puzzle books, protein drinks, adult incontinence supplies, and her favorite yogurt that can only be purchased at the local Shop-Rite and is usually out of stock. She's been sleeping until 10:30 these days, but the new placement might have impacted that and my heart is racing over the thought that she has been sitting alone and worried since I left her fifteen hours ago.
The parking lot is being resurfaced, so I lug supplies and two potted plants across the street and through the construction work and the only thing I am thinking is that I need to take deep calming breaths because I am almost there and these extra minutes will not make any difference.
And they don't.
My mother is sitting in the chair next to her bed, with a blouse on over her pajamas, and she looks as if she just woke up. I tell her good morning, and there is no discernible relief or panic in my voice -- just cheerful normality. Because I can see I wasn't really gone for her -- and I'm never really there. These periods of time apart are no different than when I am in the next room preparing her supper and she thinks I am just returning home from work even though we have been together all day and she beat me at Rummy 500 and enjoyed sitting in the sunshine on the deck. All the time spent in conversation and care does not exist outside of the current moment.
I spend two hours with her, getting her dressed, labeling and putting away her personal snacks, taping up notes around the room. We loop through the same conversational sequences about blue skies that actually look a little bit gray, the placement of the pink hydrangea next to the yellow sunflower, and we reposition the window shade to the exact place it was before she wanted it to be lowered a smidge, then raised.
A memory specialist introduces herself and my mother can name the current president, but thinks it's April or October. She claims to have had seven children (I only know of three), and believes we are in her apartment she has lived in for a few years. She pulls out her iPhone and checks the date, and notes that her daughter is coming to visit her today. The last is offered with a questioning glance at me and I nod. "That's me; I'm your daughter and I'm here to visit." She says she thought so, but wasn't sure. I smile because I don't want her to feel uncertain or worried.
Lunch arrives and I take the opportunity to transition out. She barely notices and gives me a cheerful kiss on the cheek as I tell her I will be back tomorrow. I finish out the work of the day with fewer concerns about her. She is safe and not unhappy. Once home I don’t pause every 10 minutes to remind her where I am, and I wander from one evening chore to another without being called to draw all the curtains, check every lock on every door and answer escalating concerns about the tv playing the same exact shows that it played yesterday.
My neck muscles are a bit looser; it's a measure of relief.
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