Together We Can!
I once walked in the middle with my mom’s hand a tight grip on my right, and my grandchild’s hand a gentle grasp on the left. But in 2009, when my mom turned ninety and I was officially a Medicare cardholder, I had to let go of her hand and enable her to clutch the handles of a walker, and eventually the arms of a wheelchair.
The journey from independence to dependence was an emotional roller coaster with the greatest challenges: how to keep my mom actively engaged while she declined physically and mentally; how to validate that her life mattered; and how to make my visits with her meaningful.
At first the challenges were manageable. The nursing home provided activities, so I timed my visits to fill voids between meals and activities. We chatted, watched videos of great-grandchildren, played her favorite card game UNO, and I’d leave her with vanilla wafer cookies and her book opened to a bookmarked page.
But when Mom turned ninety-seven and dementia progressed, she no longer participated in activities and UNO wasn’t an option. I’d shuffle the deck and she’d say, “I don’t want to play.” The quality of our time together deteriorated. Conversations focused on her complaints and desire to return to her apartment. Activities included meaningless re-organizations of ten outfits in the closet and dumping contents from her pocketbook onto the bed to find missing eyebrow pencils.
I evolved into a clone of visitors who wheeled their loved ones to the lobby or courtyard and chatted with other visitors as if the resident didn’t exist. I was betraying my mother who never gave up on anyone or anything. I had to find something she could still do - something we could do together. She had perfect hearing and needed glasses only to read but had stopped reading due to an inability to concentrate. That’s when I realized the way to sing the song in her heart, keep her mind active, and restore the fun we once had together was to involve her in stories.
Serendipitously, I was writing a story about my grandmother. I’d completed a rough draft on the day my mother was moving to a new room. When I arrived at the nursing home, she was in the dining room staring at her lunch, confused as to whether she was on her old or new floor. I sat next to her, explained the logistics of moving after lunch, and said, “Mom, I need your help. I wrote a story about Grandma. Could you listen and tell me if I missed anything?”
She smiled. I’d asked her to be my mother for the first time since we reversed roles. I read; she listened. When I finished, I asked, “Mom, did I miss anything?”
Her face lit up. “Yep! You forgot that Grandma loved to go for rides in cars. If anyone called and asked if she wanted to go for a ride, she’d put on her hat and wait on the stoop.”
“Mom, you’re right! Anything else?”
“Nope, but make sure you add that. What’s this for, anyhow?”
I explained that I attend writing workshops and the facilitators assign topics. The funny thing is that I had struggled with a transition from one paragraph to another, and two sentences about my grandma’s love for rides provided the solution. We had a wonderful visit, and while I wheeled her to the fourth floor, she chatted about my grandmother.
I returned the next day, helped her acclimate to her new room and roommate, and while she snacked on potato chips, I said, “Mom, I added your suggestion. Tell me if I got it right.”
She listened, smiled, and said, “That’s good. Now get it published.”
And so, we embarked on a writing venture. I’d visit, chat, address her concerns, and then wheel her to the lobby or courtyard and either read a piece I’d written, or share a writing prompt and say, “Mom, I can’t think of what to write. I need ideas.”
Her eyes twinkled and she was my mother again, engaged in a creative and productive activity. We enjoyed time together.
One day I brought a photo (old photos prompted many stories!) of her dressed in white slacks and a black and white print blouse, accessorized with simple costume jewelry. She studied the photo and commented, “How pretty I am. I wish I could wear outfits like that now. Look at the beautiful flowers and flower gardens.” I told her she was older than me in the photo but looked younger. She looked at me and said, “That’s because your hair is gray, but you’re beautiful.” Later that day, I wrote a haiku for the photo, and at the next visit I read it. She smiled and asked, “So what do you have to write about this week?”
“Waiting, and I can’t think of anything to write.”
“Waiting?” she repeated. “Like anticipation? Like when you read a good book and anticipate the ending?”
“Mom, I like that idea of anticipation.”
An hour and many pauses later, she’d created a story about an elderly lady who smashed her car into a pole because she turned her head to notice a hitchhiker who resembled a friend. I asked questions to move the story along, and she added plot, characters and dialogue. The hitchhiker turned out to be her friend who left her own birthday party because everyone was young and doing unfamiliar dances. My mom even included a twist at the end - the person who helped with her damaged car stole purchases from the back seat.
When we finished the story, I asked, “Well, do you think a reader would like this story and anticipate the ending?” Her grin answered my question.
The next time I visited, she asked, “So, did you read our story to your group?”
“Yep! And your choice of words like anticipation and fortunate impressed them.”
“So,” Mom continued, “what’s the topic this week?”
“To decide on my favorite word and then nine other words that start with the same letter and use those words in a poem. My favorite word is bubbles. What’s yours?”
This soft-spoken woman didn’t miss a beat as she stared at the doors and elevators, and declared full-volume, “Escape!” Proud that she hadn’t wasted a moment to come up with this word and that she let me know in no uncertain her greatest desire, she repeated a decibel louder, “Escape!”
“Good word, Mom. Now you need nine more words that start with e.” She used surrounding visual clues and added elevator, entrance, exit, and of course escape four more times.
“Okay mom…a few more words that start with e.”
It took a while because she was sidetracked with comments about people’s see-through outfits, tattoos and dyed striped hair, but she added entertainment and enjoyment.
“Mom, let’s make a poem with those words.”
She glared at me, “You do that. I gave you words. And do a poem about bubbles. Get them published.”
And so, each visit we made up stories. I must confess that the process of extracting ideas and words was challenging. I had to carefully construct questions to elicit responses. Some days she didn’t respond. Some days she stayed on track for an hour; other days she’d stare at me and say, “You think of ideas. I’m tired.”
Sometimes I invented topics to elicit personal stories. One day, I wanted to provide her with an opportunity to express her feelings about aging, so I decided on the topic Once. “Mom, we have to describe how we once felt and how we feel now. What did you once think about?”
“What did I once think about?” She reflected. “I used to wonder if I’d reach old age.”
“And, now?”
Her look suggested stupidity on my part. “Well, now I’m an old lady.”
“What did you once like to do?”
“Play piano and have friends.”
“And now?”
She lowered her eyes and voice. “I watch others perform and wish I had activities.”
I incorporated her feelings into a poem, “Once/Now.”
Sharing stories not only provided us with quality time together but validated the importance of her life. One day I suggested the topic Accomplishments, and she responded with pride as she shared stories of how she helped people and kept her family together. When I asked what she considered her greatest accomplishment, she replied, “My grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I saw my grandson sing the National Anthem for thousands of people at a baseball game. I participated in their graduations and danced at their weddings. And I got to be here for great-grandchildren. They visit me. They’re smart kids. And to look at you. I’m proud of you.”
And as we bonded day after day through the creative art of writing and telling stories, I learned the importance of believing in the art of possibility, discovering what my mom could still do, and helping her find a way to do it.