Amaze Frail Sacred

She sat in an olive green cushioned chair beside her tightly made bed. Her wrists looked thin and boney jutting out from her oversized sweater. She was pale, paler than I remembered her being. Someone had tried to tie her hair back from her face, but frizzy pieces escaped like white pipe cleaners kinked in all different angles. Her shoulders were hunched over her lap giving the profile of her body a concave appearance. When did you become so frail? Her hands were neatly folded in her lap as she gazed out the window. I thought she looked as if she might be in deep thought.

“Hi, Mum,” I said as I stood in the doorway to her room. I dreaded the expression I would see on her face when she turned to me. I knew there were two possibilities. It was this uncertain moment that was the most agonizing about visiting her. Would she look at me with the joyful recognition of a mother or the perplexed look of stranger? But, the agonizing moment turned into agonizing minutes as I realized she didn’t respond to the sound of my voice at all.

“Mum?” I said loudly. She seemed to not even hear me. I looked at the floor and swallowed. I noticed the black and white patterned tiles on the floor made the home look a lot like a hospital room. I looked around the rest of the room and noticed the cheap Wal-Mart painting on the wall, blue wallpapered walls, and yellowed lace curtains. What would you think of this décor, Mum? I supposed the ambiance no longer mattered to the woman in the chair. It was only important they cared for her adequately.

I turned toward the nurse standing behind me in the hallway. She had escorted me to the room.

“Does she speak at all anymore?” I asked her.

“She does speak, although she‘s in the advanced stage of Alzheimer's now.” She looked at me apologetically. “She needs help with most daily activities and will probably not recognize you. Has it been some time since you last saw her? I’ve seen her other daughter here before, but I don’t believe we’ve met”.

“Yes, it has been a long time. I live quite a distance away.” Excuse. I felt like I had to provide more information to defend myself. “She lived with my sister for many years. It became too difficult for even my sister to take care of her.” Yes, even my amazing martyr sister couldn’t take it anymore.

I turned back to my mother’s room.

“Go ahead in and sit with her. She may speak, she may not. But, sometimes it helps to talk to your loved one even when you are not sure they are hearing you.” The nurse put her hand on my shoulder in what I imagined she thought was a comforting gesture. I fought the urge to brush it off. “It is hard on a family, Alzheimer’s. I see it often in here. There are support groups. We have pamphlets on the wall by the front door.”

“Thank you.” Go away.

The nurse continued on down the hall.

How could I have explained it to her? How could I explain this woman was not my mother? This woman was a shell of a being that had been creative and vibrant and loving. No, this woman wasn’t my mother. My mother had died years ago. And yet, wasn’t it a sacred duty to love your mother? So I was here, visiting this woman who was and wasn’t my mother.
I walked into the room and stood in front of her.

“Mum?”

She turned and looked up at me. It was an expression that might have been recognition. My heart skipped a beat.

“I already told you,” she said as her expression turned into a scowl, “I don’t want any soup.”
There was a sharp pain in my stomach.

“No, of course not,” I said. “No soup.”

I felt the need to flee. Instead, I slowly turned and walked out of the room. I stood up straight and kept my face passive as I walked down the long hallway. On the way out the front door, I took a pamphlet.