An Orphaned Mother

Once she managed to elope.

Not far from our building she was spotted by a staff member who whisked her back, but we were troubled and worried still.

The fact that it was our own carelessness that left her in harm’s way struck a dissonant chord in the hearts of all who heard.

And we all heard.

She walked as if in a dream.

Her shaking fingers fumbled with a cheap, beaded necklace.

She was a textbook wanderer, continually looking for a way to elope.

A hesitant shuffle and a small figure did not draw much attention, but everyone immediately noticed if she was missing.

The uniform esotericism of friends and strangers alike caused her to accept every person as friend, though none could truly ever be that for her.

Her undying love for an ever-absent daughter colored her vague comments and preoccupied her feeble mind, until the sweet sorrow of moments lost haunted her eyes.

Those eyes coupled with a voice, never spoken above a soft murmur, captured the hearts of our entire building.

She sat with the Director of Nursing during interviews, and proudly interjected jumbled words now and then.

At any given time, she could be seen trailing the housekeepers or holding hands with the nursing staff.

But still, the haze of her bewilderment blocked any lasting understanding of camaraderie.

So, although she walked with friends, she walked alone.

There was an old, black-and-white portrait tacked above her bed.

In it, her little daughter sat on her lap.

There was no father.

Now her grown daughter lives several states away.

Mother’s Day came and went unnoticed by both; she quietly cried over her absent daughter just as she did most days.

Calendar pages of kittens and puppies littered her desk.

Nineteen stuffed animals covered her bed.

A baby animal poster was taped to her wall.

She smiled when she saw people walking their dogs in the park.

When other residents’ visitors brought babies, all her shy timidity melted into pure, unabashed delight.

She had no grandchildren to crown her in her old age.

Any child could be hers for a moment, however brief.

Back in the day, she was a firefighter.

A parachute jumper.

She used to keep a garden.

Rumors circulated and collided over the months and years.

Hidden beneath the shroud of dementia was a great woman’s history.

As her caretakers, the threads of her history were ours to untangle, to know her like no one else.

It was intriguing to think that fifty years ago she had real-life romances and adventures, betrayals and loyalties, normal days and holidays.

Decades had established her unique styles, habits, and fears.

But then dementia had inhibited those personal characteristics and blinded the one she loved most.

Her daughter could not see past her disjointed mumblings and irrational behaviors.

So, the occasional memory loosed from the bonds of her dementia was permeated with a sense of nostalgia, of something lost.

Let me sorta change the subject for a moment. Let me also make the gross generalization that most people don’t understand why we CNAs like our jobs. They don’t know why we work backbreaking 12 hour shifts enveloped by the smell of feces and urine caring for mentally ill and dying old folks who swear and fight back.

Honestly, sometimes we wonder the same thing.

We don’t like cleaning up poop anymore than you do.

We don’t like fighting to brush a grumpy elderly man’s teeth either.

But we love, love, love our residents.

Again, a bit of honesty, the first week on the job is bad. Um. Check that. It's the absolute worst ever... in the entire history of the universe.

You don’t know what you’re doing, so you bumble around making one mistake after another. The nursing staff is mad at you for getting in the way and slowing them down, the residents are mad at you for completely screwing up their routines, and you’re mad at you for accepting the dumb job offer in the first place. Hundreds of apologies and stains of you-know-what later you’re done with the first week. From there, you gradually fall into a routine and fall more and more in love with your dear residents. You learn to breathe through your nose sometimes as you roll through the tasks at hand.

After that first week, it’s peachy.

No matter how it seems that this resident is a child to be chastised and trained and helped, she. is. not. 

And that is precisely the point. 

We hold her hands to keep her from falling, set out her clothes, style her hair, encourage her to eat, comfort her from nightmares, wipe her tears, compliment her beaded necklaces, bring her our children, let her shaking hands hold our babes, why? We feel the responsibility to give all the residents back their displaced dignity that   was lost to time.

When she was young, this resident had hopes and dreams. She did not picture herself needing two aids to move from bed to wheelchair, wheelchair to bed. Now she mostly does not even know what’s going on around her. But, she still has hopes and dreams, different from when she was young, of course. Her hopes and dreams might seem trivial and short-lived, but they are still her heart’s desire. She might want to see her daughter again, or might want to feel a kitten’s soft fur, or to look at pictures.

Call me a mush-ball, but I like to think that when we hold her hands and make her smile we are helping a few of her little dreams come true. 

It’s the least we can do.