Phone Call

Source of photo: Encyclopedia Britannica

********************************************

It should have been a hard holiday for my Mom. The week before Christmas, I was all packed and ready to leave for a week-long visit when my sister called to tell me she and my brother-in-law were both feeling poorly. No, she reassured me, it wasn’t Covid, but they didn’t feel well at all. Because I always stay with them when I come to visit my Mom, we regretfully made the decision that I should stay home. My sister was in no shape for company – not even her sister (!!) – and I’d just end up getting sick, too. Because we are ultra careful about not bringing germs into our Mom’s seniors residence, and because we would never lie about such a thing, neither of us would have been able to visit Mom in any case. It was with immense sadness that I unpacked my bags and stowed away their Christmas presents, which had been sitting in a box, wrapped and ready, beside my suitcase at the door.

We would come to be very, very grateful that I didn’t make that trip: my sister and my brother-in-law both had the flu – the real flu: what doctors call influenza – and it absolutely flattened them both for a month. The first week, they barely had the strength to crawl to the bathroom.

It was the first Christmas that Mom has ever spent alone and our hearts were broken. I cannot fully express how grateful we were for the amazing nursing staff and personal care assistants who took such wonderful care of her during the three weeks – including Christmas and New Years – that we could not visit.

Instead, we spent a lot of time on the phone. We are blessed that Mom still has a phone and knows how to use it: not many residents on Mom’s floor do have one, anymore. They must miss it, though: we have occasionally received a call from another resident who has wandered into Mom’s room and used the easy pre-dial buttons on Mom’s phone to give us a call.

When your parent has dementia, phone calls become precious events. My sister and I understand that the day may come when Mom forgets who we are. Mom already struggles with the remote control of her television and we know the day will come when even the easy, preprogrammed buttons on Mom’s phone may become too much for her to figure out.

When our mother calls, unless there is a really good reason, my sister and I drop everything. Mom doesn’t multi-task well anymore and I am always careful to find a secluded spot where she and I can talk with no background distractions, like a television droning, the dog barking or my husband calling out to me from another room. I never know if we are about to launch into a one-hour conversation or a quick, three-minute question and it doesn’t matter: I always get settled in for a nice, long chat. I let Mom guide the conversation: her mind wanders here and there and she frequently loses the thread of the conversation, but she recalls past events with a lot of clarity and I always love hearing her stories of times gone by.

Recently, Mom called while my husband and I were in the car. I signaled for him to stay quiet – having two people on a call really confuses Mom and she can’t wrap her head around the idea that I have a phone in my car – and then she and I proceeded to have a nice chat, just like we always do.

After we had both hung up, my husband finally spoke up, in a quiet, almost reverent voice. “That was one of the nicest, most loving conversations I have ever heard. If that were the last conversation you and your Mom had, you would have no regrets, whatsoever.”

I was pleased that he thought so, but more pleased when I told him it was just a ‘normal’ conversation. It’s how we speak, every time we speak. Yes, we are a normal family and yes, we had some really rough years. Lots of them. But now – right now – my sister and I are very consciously aware that the sand in Mom’s personal hourglass is running down. We both do our best to treat every conversation with Mom – and every visit – like an opportunity we won’t be getting back.

It could have been a terrible holiday season for Mom but we spoke so frequently on the phone, it was almost like being right there with her, each and every day.

Sometimes, an almost-empty hour glass can push you to rush yourself into a frenzy.

But sometimes, it helps you stop and just savour the moment.

Patti Moore Wilson © wednesdayschildca.wordpress.com

Advertisement