From the Heart

FROM THE HEART

There are two groups of people that I find myself very uncomfortable around, the very young (less than seven) and the very old (over eighty). I know this does not sound politically correct and I also know that this is a personal problem that I should work on to correct. Let me assure you that I have made every effort to resolve my insecurity in this matter.

What confuses this problem even more is that it is not necessarily only the age. It has more to do more with the mindset of the people I am around or could it be my mindset? After careful evaluation of myself and the uneasiness I feel when subjected to such, I realized that once the dialogue becomes dependent on me solely, then I begin to falter. I struggle to find the right words to entice the very young or the very old into a productive and entertaining dialogue. It’s almost as if I just don’t know what to say. Encounters of this kind, when initialized, begin well enough, but once the initial greeting and pleasantries are given, then the communication begins to fail.

I watch other people, my wife for one, work the dialogue well with any age person and it seems to come very natural, talking and listening, each party offering input and giving the appearance that both are enjoying the conversation. I, on the other hand, find myself at a loss of words, struggling to find a topic that may interest the other party, only to find myself speechless and leaving the seven year old gazing around the room, looking for something else to do, or in the case of the eighty year old they may begin to doze, their head falling to their chest their eyes glazed in an unconscious stupor..

Although age appears to be a major contributing factor to this problem, I have also come to realize that there are certain types of relationships that render me unable to communicate effectively. My relationships with my parents, brother and sister are perfect examples of my inability to communicate effectively. I find myself avoiding the situation, thus not visiting as often as I should. I feel very comfortable talking and discussing most any topic with my wife and daughter, and even with perfect strangers, as long as they’re within the required age bracket, but once I find myself with my brother or sister, I find myself struggling and after only about five minutes, we sit in silence, unable to cultivate a meaningful connection.

I realize that part of the problem may be that we may have very little in common. They may not be interested in the things I do, and I’m not interested in the things they do, thus there is very little to talk about. After careful observation of my wife in such situations, I came to understand that you must show interest in the other party by asking questions, building on the dialogue in such a way that the conversation begins to have a life of its own.

Having learned these important lessons, I took off to visit my Mom with apprehensive dread.
My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years back and has spent the last two years in an assisted living facility and presently in a skilled nursing home in Knoxville. Her mind has deteriorated to a degree that much of the time she is unable to speak and when she does, she rambles on about things that seems to suggest that she is delusional, so I knew I had my work cut out for me and my gut instinct told me to avoid the situation. I could always use the excuse that even though I wanted to visit my Mom, I knew that she would not know who I was, so why go. Most people seem to understand and accept this rationalization, but deep inside I knew better.

I arrived at the nursing home, and after signing the visitor’s log, I took the elevator to the fourth floor. As the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor I stepped into a small sitting area, furnished with a couple of couches, a few tables, chairs and a large flat screen television was tuned to what appeared to be ‘The Living Channel’, which seemed appropriate for the audience, although after more careful observation, I wondered if maybe a few of the viewers may not be breathing.

At first glance around the small sitting area, there was maybe ten patients, some male, some female, and most all either had a walker at their side, or sitting in a wheel chair. Everyone looked alike! It reminded me of the times I would have to go to the daycare to pick up my daughter, walking into the room, full of toddlers and trying to pick my daughter out of the group.

These aged souls were not talking with each other and seemed to be uninterested in the program on the television. Most was either in various stages of sleep or staring into space in their own world, possibly sorting through their foggy memories of the past. There was an air of abandoned hope and confused mingling.

I strolled down the hall to my mother’s room and with her door open I entered. I was surprised to find she was not there. I looked around the small hospital like room, taking inventory of the few pictures that was framed and sitting on various ledges and tables. Pictures and portraits of our family’s past. A portrait in particular sat close to her bed and was of our family taken maybe fifty years ago; a young, happy family, looking into the camera’s lens, appearing to be looking into the future in joyous anticipation of what the future would bring; my mother sitting beside me in the portrait, her hand on my shoulder, smiling proudly.

Realizing my mother was not in the room, I stepped back into the hallway, and a nurse approached me. “Are you looking for Garnet?” The nurse questioned.

“Yes, I’m her son, Jeff. Do you know where she is?”

“I think she is in physical therapy, on the first floor. You’re welcome to go down there to visit her. We think the world of Garnet…. She’s a card!” The nurse offered this and I could tell she was sincere in her evaluation of my Mom.

“Thanks, I’ll try down there.”

I took the elevator back down to the first floor and walked down the long hallway toward physical therapy, realizing that just the walk, the long walk, down the hallway would be enough physical therapy for most, and I wondered if mom was wheel chaired to physical therapy, knowing that for the most part she was immobile and definitely would not be able to find her way out of the room, much less back up four floors and down the next long hallway.

I found the room, above the door a sign read ‘Physical Therapy’. I stepped into the spacious room, vacant except for a couple of small tables, a few chairs, a variety of different size balls, a few elastic bands and a few pieces of other odd equipment I was unfamiliar with. There was no one in the room. I stepped back into the hallway, noticing a nurse escorting an elderly gentleman our way. The nurse had the gentleman by the arm giving him some support as they took each step, taking maybe five small steps in five minutes, yet the nurse smiled giving the gentleman encouragement as they slowwwly moved my way. I walked their way and after introducing myself I questioned the nurse if she knew if Garnet was suppose to be in Physical Therapy. She informed me no, that Garnet’s physical therapy was on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She suggested that Garnet was probably on the fourth floor eating in the dining area.

Again I walked down the long hallway to the elevators and went to the fourth floor.

As the elevator doors opened, the same group of bewildered, departed glories was still sitting in their respective spots, gazing aimlessly with woeful weariness. I passed them again, finding my mother’s room, only to find she was still not there. I traveled back down the hallway, looking for a nurse or possibly the dining area. As I passed the aforementioned group of seniors, one caught my eye. She was sitting alone in a wheelchair. Her hands folded in her lap; her gaze was to nowhere in particular, displaying a sorrowful sense of resignation. I stepped closer, looking into the face that was scarred with life’s aged wrinkles and I saw my Mom. She continued to have that same lost stare as I knelt beside her and I spoke, “Hey Mom, it’s me….. It’s Jeff.”

I could see her eyes begin to focus on me, her mind searching within the years of cobwebs for the discarded reminiscences. With a bit of tardy recognition, she permitted herself a delicate little smile, and poured out to me the full opulence of proud recognition.

“Oh….! Hi Jeff….Oh Honey…..”, it was almost a whisper, a murmur linked with a pleasing sigh.
I hugged her, telling her how well she looked and she did compared to how she had looked a few weeks before. I told her I loved her, giving her another hug and I began to see a few tears soften her vision.

I pulled up a chair beside her and grabbing her feeble hand, I began telling her everything that had happened to me and my family over the past few weeks. She listened for just a minute before meekly interrupting me and asking if Inez was with me. I did not know an Inez, so I questioned her who Inez was.

“She was with you yesterday…..”, again she answered in a weakened voice but was confident that Inez, whoever that was, was with me yesterday.

I realized then that mom was imagining these things; the Alzheimer’s grabbing what little mind she had left, dissolving years of memories and causing confusion even in the present.
“No mom…. Inez did not come with me today, but she wanted to.” I answered, playing this silly game that I was thrown into.

“Oh…. She’s so sweet…..You are too… You know you are my favorite.” Again the weary smile.

“I love you mom…. I missed you.” I answered, looking for the right words.

I watched her as she gazed into my eyes trying to piece together the broken pieces of life that lay in the depths of her mind as jumbled pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

We talked for an hour, her some, usually not making much sense, and I picking up the slack and talking a lot about nothing, delusional myself perhaps but it was good. We had that connection, that mother-son bonding that was almost forgotten by me. We laughed and reminisced, talked about the old days, and the present. I’m not sure she understood anything I was saying and I understood very little what she said, but I felt her love and I think she felt mine.

I kissed her on the cheek, told her good-bye but that I would be back soon. I glanced at her as I walked to the elevator, her eyes following me, and I saw that same beautiful mother in that family portrait with all the love, hopes and dreams that I was so much a part of.

As I rode the elevator back down to the first floor, I realized that communication, with anyone, whether they are seven or eighty, should be from the heart. It doesn’t matter what you say, what you talk about, or necessarily how well you listen, just the fact you are willing to participate and to let your heart do the talking. That is usually enough.
Thanks Mom for everything…

This great visit with my loving mom took place September 25, 2010. She taught me one more lesson of life. How to communicate!