It never gets any easier to walk away from my mother after a visit at the nursing home. Today was no different, although it is Friday, which means I won’t be back until Monday. I take the weekends off, confident that my sister will fill the void of the two afternoons while I have the luxury of staying home.

We visited the big activity room today, after the scheduled events had waned. Momma’s friend, Bobbie from her old neighborhood, spotted us from across the room and raised her hand in a wave to come to her. She had participated in the Thanksgiving themed plan of receiving cards from schoolchildren and drinking hot apple cider. The cups and napkins still sat on the table in front of her.

I pushed Momma’s wheelchair over to her and she greeted Momma, saying hello and waited for a response. Having been a nurse, she understood that Momma probably wouldn’t say any words but she still gave her the opportunity. I sat down in a chair and pulled Momma in close to Bobbie. Bobbie told me she wanted to go home. She was going to call a taxi and have them take her home.” If there was only someone there who could pay”…she broke off as tears overwhelmed her words. She thoughtfully reviewed all that was left of her family– and she named her children, leaving out her deceased husband’s name. I held her hand as she felt the wave of emotion take her to a sorrowful place. I sat there, feeling the sadness of time gone by, as I considered what I might say next, hoping I would be sensitive to her feelings. I handed her a tissue from Momma’s stash and she dabbed her face dry.

I asked her what she missed about her home. “Everything,” she declared. “Yard work?” I asked. “Yes!” she said. “Cleaning house?” “Especially cleaning house,” she emphasized. I asked her who cooked Thanksgiving dinner. “I did!” We then reviewed what her favorite menu was. “Turkey and dressing”, was her quick response. Ambrosia salad (we discussed what was actually in ambrosia salad and decided it was pretty tasty), potato salad, little green peas (a nearby resident added it had to be the tiny peas) and Bobbie agreed. Would there be gravy for the turkey and dressing? “Absolutely.”  What about dessert? “Oh, well, this year it will depend on what Morrison’s has to offer” (a nearby cafeteria). She knew for a fact that they would have sweet potato pie-her favorite.

I pulled out a satsuma from my purse, as all this talk of food was making me hungry. I offered one to her. The activity person saw me giving her food and announced that maybe she could have it, but she thought she required a soft diet. What did she have on that breakfast outing recently, she mused, loud enough for the entire room to consider with her. “Oh yeah, she ate cereal, it’s okay, I guess she can have it.” Bobbie looked at me and said, “I guess I can have it.”

I gave it to her and she put the fragrant citrus orb to her nose. She commented that she thought that she had a satsuma tree in her yard. I agreed that I thought she did. I took out another one from my purse and peeled it into a napkin. I fed one section to Momma, then a section to me. Bobbie commented that she liked that I fed Momma. We continued eating until it was all gone. Remarkably, Momma used the tissue I had placed in her hand to wipe her own nose. She was making an effort as we were in the company of someone who knew her from a previous place. Bobbie peeled her satsuma and shared it with a resident who came over, wanting a piece.

Then she took a section and reached over and offered it to Momma’s mouth like I had. I pulled Momma closer to Bobbie. Momma took it. After Momma had eaten it, Bobbie offered her the last piece. Momma ate it, too. Bobbie smiled with satisfaction and placed the orange peel into the napkin in my lap.  I saw that Bobbie enjoyed the act of giving and caring as much as I had enjoyed seeing her seize the opportunity.

It was getting close to four o’clock so we decided to go on back to the room. We left Bobbie sitting alone, since all the other residents had been delivered to their rooms, so the janitor could fold up the tables and clean the floor.

I felt her sadness again as she watched us walk away. Much like that same sadness I feel, knowing things will never be the way they used to be, as I leave my mother in her room, alone, uncertain, and vulnerable to the folks I entrust for her care.