Notes from the Nursing Home Nook.

This is the first in what might become a series, as I sit in the little nook in mom’s room. Most of the time I am here, watching her breathe. In and out. In and out. An occasional moan. An even rarer chuckle. Sometimes she stretches her legs. Sometimes I hear snippets of conversations she had in her dreams.

Last year about this time she was in and out of this place, this kind and competent place in which we are beyond lucky to have her. She contracted Covid here (not their fault) and they nursed her back to (semi) health, and eventually back to the point she could go home.

This time last year, we could not visit. I can only imagine the isolation of the residents of the second floor. I could see mama for minutes at a time, and even then only if someone was available to bring her down to the lobby, where we each had phones and saw each other through thick glass. I understood the protocol. Still, I cried internal tears in the truck after those encounters. Even then, the daily images burned into my brain.

So you can imagine what a blessing it is to be here in the little alcove in her room, watching her breathe, doing some work. And then, when she is awake, having conversations that are both mundane and profound.

We talk about Sasha the cat. And the bathroom she uses in her house. And the state of the kitchen. We talk about the small pleasures that can make all the difference–when the end looms, one does not think about cars, or jewelry, or of furniture, or of anything connected to status or social capital. One thinks of throat drops. And of soft blankets. And of hand lotion. And of lip balm.

I did not know that a conversation surrounding lip balm could bring me to my metaphorical knees. But the other day, she asked me for lip balm. It was easier to just go to the store and get her one, instead of trying to find the one she had in the house, so I got a three pack of Blistex, and brought it to her. I kept the one that gave off a little color, but there were two left, and I let her know that she could have the other two. “Oh baby, you know I ain’t gonna need but one of those”.

There it is.

More than the lip balm, she knows that the twin hospital bed on the second floor of the caring nursing home is the last stop. There is a part of me that is glad that she knows, even as I silently rail at the cruelty of having enough of the lucid to know.

To know is to prepare. The stuff of a life ending, yes; asking about the practicalities, but also turning inward. Who she has been, all she has done, all she has taught, people she knew, for good or ill, all visit her in the sleep I don’t dare disturb, because, at this point, I know her dream life is better than a life with beeps and moans from her nursing home neighbors, and oxygen masks and mushy food.

I get it.

And I pray her dreams are good ones, and I chuckle when she does, and sigh when she moans. But she does wake up eventually. At least for now. We have had conversations I am not ready to tell you yet; as well, this is her story to tell, her final crucible to walk, and so, at least for now, I will be circumspect.

But the conversations have been searing; the burning in her one good eye piercing. I can tell you this:

I do not have permission to walk away from my call.

I do not have permission to shut up.

In another conversation, I showed her snippets of videos, and we talked about the work I am privileged to do. In them, she heard me talk abut Margaret, and Madolyn, and Catherine, and Clark, and how I strive to honor her and her ancestors’ memories and legacies. She said, incredulously, that day, ‘Jan? you do all of this for us’?

And I knew exactly what she meant. ‘Yes, mama, I do.’ And I will.

And now, every day she can, she asks me what new stuff I have done ‘for my people’.

In my mind, I will hear that question every day. As I abide one on one. As I open my laptop. As I approve disbursal of funds for the Mental Health Fund and for Community partners. As I present to groups of 5 or 5000.

Every day, Bobbye Jean. Every day. I will not show you her in her face. Again circumspection. Her body is frail. And mama, like her youngest daughter, has more than a touch of vanity. I will never dishonor her or take away her agency. But I can offer you a rose.

Today, one of the Leadership Team–your LoR delinquents–sent not one, but two bouquets; one for my mother, and one for me. Yes. I wept.

I will cheat a bit. I will use both bouquets as I do videos tonight, and will bring them to her room tomorrow. But I did sneak a rose out of one of them. Made sure there were no thorns, and presented it to her. Bright pink–the favorite color of both herself and of Lacie Mae. She inhaled, she cradled and now, it sits on her bedside table along with the accoutrement of meals and calorie boosters. Right where she can see it.

This is it, y’all. Pink roses and lip balm. And legacy.

And another day passes in the Valley of Paradise.

Join us in the Bistro for the discussion.

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