5 minutes...maybe 6

by Mary Reiman

I look for a sign every day. Today when I got up and looked out the window there was a beautiful robin sitting on the fence looking in the window. I know it was my mom checking in. 

Every morning one of the first things I see is a picture I have taped to my bathroom mirror of my mom and me. My good friend, Carol, told me to talk to her every day, that mom would hear me, even though I can’t visit or call her. Mom is 96 years old (97 next month) and I can’t call her because she no longer answers her phone. But now, since they are in quarantine at the nursing home, I can schedule time with the wonderful activities director, also named Carol, so she can guide Mom to pick up the phone and hear my voice. My time is Tuesday morning at 10:30. Our conversation is approximately 5 minutes, not the 45 minutes it used to be. Yes, we were talkers! 

Mom has dementia. It’s difficult to write that word as a descriptor of her.  Even with this diagnosis, she’s always met my five finger test: she is happy, healthy, safe, remembers me and still smiles when she sees me.  How lucky am I? More than I can ever express.

Now 5 minutes is our new normal. It’s how long I seem to keep her attention before she hands the phone back to Carol. I ramble on about the weather, what I’m doing, with questions about what prizes she’s been winning at bingo, and what she’s been eating. Somewhere in that 5 minutes I lose her attention, even though I think of myself as a riveting conversationalist! That sounds better than saying I’m a talker. I learned that skill from my mom. When I was a teen, it was SO embarrassing to go anywhere with her, because she would stop and talk to EVERYONE. Whether at church or the grocery store or when shopping, she would greet friends and neighbors, checking in to see how they were doing and taking the time to listen to their happy stories as well as their sad ones. I believe her goal was to make everyone feel special.

Now, when I hang up after 5 minutes, every type of indescribable feeling comes crashing over me, wondering what I should have/could have said to keep her engaged, to keep her talking so I could hear her voice for one more minute.  How many questions could I have asked that would have kept her focused, would have made sure she knew it was me calling, would have made her feel special, reminded her how much she is loved.

I now spend the rest of each week trying to think about the questions that might engage her next time, to keep her talking for perhaps 6 minutes. This seems to be the perfect season to ask questions that might bring back memories. What was her favorite flower on the farm? I think it was lantanas. What’s her favorite kind of pie? She made lots of pies. All kinds. All fabulous. I think it was peach, although maybe that’s just what I want it to be since that was my favorite. (I’ve never found another peach pie that tastes like hers). What is her favorite color? I think yellow. She is stunning in yellow.

Trust me, I realize how lucky I am to know that the nursing home staff in my hometown is taking such great care of my mom. When the wave of sadness that it may be another month or two, or who knows how long, before I will get to see her in person, I know she is cared for by health care workers who are filled with goodness and kindness.  I know that because I saw them in action when she moved into the nursing home on December 31st. 

So why is it that I am having a good old-fashioned pity party for myself when I realize they get to see her every day and they make her laugh more than I do and they get to pat her hand and comb her hair and tell her how cute she is. Those are the things I want her to remember that I have always done.

Yes, they are redefining the meaning of family.  In the two months she was at the nursing home before the quarantine, I would watch the nurses urging her to eat, gently tucking her in at night and helping her maneuver her new normal of life in a wheelchair. I know those caring souls still go to work each day and bring their best, kindest, most gentle and loving selves to care for their elders. They are now her family. Of course they probably were before the quarantine, I just didn’t want to admit it. I wasn’t ready to redefine ‘family.’ Part of me probably never will be. 

I am well aware there’s no guarantee Mom will remember me the next time I arrive at her door. She might not smile and wave when I walk into her room. No matter what comes next, I will never forget how that made my heart soar. But there is the guarantee that she will always be surrounded by family. In my lucid moments, I realize it is up to me to continue to adjust my thinking, amend my definition, and rejoice in the goodness of humanity during this great upheaval. And through the tears and the frustration and the fear, I do give thanks, especially on Tuesdays, for the gift of her voice for 5 minutes. Next week, maybe 6.