An Unexpected Gift
written by: Elizabeth Bowden-David
My brother Stuart, who has been our mother’s caregiver for five years, shared a perspective once that I keep turning over in my mind:
“You know, people think of dementia as some kind of absence. Like something’s missing. Some part of her is gone. But after watching her for so long, my thinking has changed.”
How so, I asked him.
“I believe she’s fully existing, but somewhere else.”
What do you mean, I wanted to know.
“I can’t explain it exactly, it’s just…I can see, there’s something going on in her mind. She’s somewhere, just not here.”
I trusted his view, as he’s with her essentially 24/7. By contrast, I live on the other side of the globe and see her only about once a year; my penetrating insights are correspondingly paltry. But one day, just before Christmas, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something extraordinary.
It was a typical morning, which meant that I called her to say hello on my walk, while it was evening over in her time zone. Strolling up one side of the green, I expected the call to end by the time I rounded the corner. Most days are like a two-minute tape recording:
Part 1 – I ask what she’s up to.
Part 2 – She replies either, “Oh, I’m just enjoying Stuart’s company,” or “Oh, I’m just sitting here counting my blessings.”
Part 3 – I try to tell her something lighthearted or amusing.
Part 4 – She loses the thread and asks, “Well, is there anything I can help you with?”
Part 5 – We exchange I-love-you’s and hang up.
Why do I make these repetitive calls? A bit out of a sense of duty, I suppose, but mostly it’s to hear her voice.
In that December morning’s call, I rounded the corner and chanced upon a small tree that was resplendent with chirping sounds. I figured it was a suitably lighthearted topic for Part 3.
“Mother, do you hear that? Gosh, there must be at least 20 birds in this tree I’m standing next to.”
“Well,” she replied, “I just saw some birds flying in the sky a while ago. A flock of them. Maybe they’re flying over to where you are.”
I turned away from the small wonder of the chirping tree and began paying attention to the small wonder on the phone. She normally didn’t speak so descriptively. I looked up to the sky.
“We went to see Christmas decorations and there were lights in the bushes. And a big Santa,” she chuckled.
Although she correctly pegged the season as Christmastime, I doubted that she would remember an outing for more than a few minutes afterward. She must be waking up from a dream, I thought. I happily played along, hoping to help her linger in that post-dream space. But then she switched gears.
“So have you got your Christmas decorations up?”
“Um, yeah! As a matter of fact, I do. This year I bought poinsettias but guess what? They’re bright pink!” Another topic of amusement, I hoped. She had always bought ruby red poinsettias to grace our front door.
“Pink? Now how ‘bout that?”
And then we were off to the races. Ordinary conversation for most folks, but with length of interaction that kept surprising me. One minute, then two, then five, then ten. I had circled the park, and our chat was still in progress. I turned down a long side street, and her thoughts kept up in an impossibly long and logical thread: From my pink poinsettias, to her little ceramic tree, to the colorful holiday socks on her feet, to the coziness of a cup of coffee. Her own mother’s percolator. Which family members prefer Maxwell House to Folgers. My sister-in-law Donna’s preference for coffee with cream.
It was like listening to a song that you never want to end, and to your delight the music keeps playing.
Then she mentioned Cristina by name. Wait, she knows her? I flicked through my mind’s index to the date Cristina married my nephew Micah, then further back to when Micah would have announced, “Grandmama, I’ve met the girl of my dreams.” Four years ago. Could that be right?
Unsteadily, I sat down on a slab bench. She continued chirping away with all sorts of specific news, and I became as still as the stone I was sitting upon. An endless string of chatter brought her thoughts back to Christmas trees. She asked how I had decorated mine, and I told her the ornaments were gold, light blue, and lavender.
“Bet that looks pretty with the pink poinsettias,” she said.
If any neighbor had been strolling by at that point, they would have seen my mouth fall open. It had been half an hour since I had told her about the flowers.
It was only at this point that it occurred to me to record the conversation. I fiddled with the phone quickly to press the right button, then strolled over to the red park swing. I was going to settle in and enjoy this for as long as it lasted. The beautiful song I never wanted to end was still playing.
We sang Winter Wonderland together and laughed. “I sing in my head all the time,” she told me. I marveled as she began another logical thread, linking blackberry pie to summers plucking blackberries by the lake to her favorite lakeside rocking chair.
Ten years ago, this would have been normal. I hadn’t realized until there, on that swing, how much I had missed the bond of unbroken conversation with her. After an hour and a half – an hour and a half! – she ran out of things to say, closing with, “Keep a lookout for that flock of birds coming over your way.”
By the next morning, Mother had drifted back to her new normal, and the two-minute, tape-recorder chit chat was reinstated.
If Christmas is a time of wonder, I sure received a generous helping. She had been learning new things all these years when it seemed impossible. I shared Stuart’s sense of awe that she had been fully existing all along, yet in a mystifying way or place.
And if Christmas is for gifting, well! People sometimes say of a dying or deceased loved one, “I’d give anything for just one more day.” Inexplicably, undeservedly, and unforgettably, I got that one more day.
Will she be here on earth with us this Christmas? Or the next? What I know is that every December from now on, when I choose my poinsettias, I’ll have an imaginary conversation with her. I can already hear the echo of her voice in my future daydreams: “Yellow? Bet that looks cheerful.” Or…“Red? A classic – can’t go wrong with that.” Or…“White? Ah, peace on earth.”
And I still look up to the sky sometimes, to see if that flock of birds might come my way.
- An Unexpected Gift - December 22, 2024
