Memory Care

As I prepare to move my mom into memory care—her fifth move that I’ve overseen in four years—I find myself carefully scrutinizing what belongings she has left. Trying to make sense of a mind that can no longer make any sense is a futile task. Objects—jewelry, collectables, artwork that used to hold such sentimental value for her, that grounded her, have been haphazardly thrown in cheap garbage bags she has pilfered from the housekeeping cart—a laughable amount of garbage bags that I’m forever returning to staff. Eating utensils thrown together with bras, a random mug or plate, a single sock, a pair of pants, a few books and a nail file. I randomly found a stick of butter in one bag.

The ironic thing is, she isn’t even aware of the fact that I’m about to move her—she’s just been in this continuous loop of wanting to get “home.” Her singular focus consuming all her time and energy the past couple months to return to a home that she cannot even define. I wrongly have been assuming she was referring to the childhood home where my parents lived for 38 years, where they raised my brother and me, but more recently have come to the realization that it must be her childhood home that she wants to return to, to a mother and father long gone.

I’ve unpacked her countless times in the last few months, the building staff has as well. The temptation exists to just leave her packed up, but I’ve been holding onto the hope that she will snap out of this loop, this Groundhog’s Day. The mess is a tripping hazard, a hygiene issue and, while I may not always be the neatest, tidiest person, I do not want my mother to live in chaos. Recently this loop has escalated to endangerment—she has been plotting her escape, waiting by the building entrance, and bolting out with staff chasing her down. So here I am once again finding myself in a position to make a quick care decision for my mom.

A move to Memory care comes a radical stripping of extraneous “stuff.” With every move over the past few years, we have pared down her belongings a little bit more. Yesterday I snuck out some of the bags of stuff and packed up most of her kitchenette and snuck that out as well. Today I will go back and covertly do the same. If she catches me trying to take something out or throw something away, it is suddenly the most valuable, important thing she owns. The inexpensive couch cover I put on when she moved to assisted living that she long since removed and stuffed under her bed, that I tried to throw away yesterday morning was quickly rescued from the garbage and is now material that she is going to make into something else—how and what, we will never know. This little nugget, will frustrating, amuses me and cements the fact that my creativity definitely comes from her.

So, as I sift and sort and try to preserve, I’m coming to the realization that this exercise is no longer for her, but for me. These remaining things no longer have any sentimental value to her. Her life has been stripped down to these meaningful things that no longer hold meaning to her, but by extension, they do to me. These are the things she has valued and carried with her through her 82 years. This has become my own Memory Care.

What’s left of valuable figurines my father gave her every year for Christmas for many, many years—an unknown number which have now gone missing or broken in all this packing—are now safely packed away and in my basement. Waiting for me to sift through in my home are a couple bags of jewelry, scarves, and random objects. You might think it is the contents of a junk drawer, and, perhaps, that is all that is left will in fact, just end up in the garbage. I’m hoping my parent’s wedding rings are still in there. She gave them to me to safeguard during the last move, but she specifically asked for them back. I saw her wearing one a week or so ago…she often forgets that my father has passed away and has even asked me who he was. The knowledge that she had a husband, let alone one she was married to for 52 years has been shocking to her lately, but when I saw her wearing her wedding ring, it made me know that he was still with her in this small way.

The only artwork my mom had left hanging in her apartment were pieces of mine. The watercolor inspired by a photo from my childhood of brother and me in our swimsuits running through the sprinkler, abstracted with swirling water, a project from art school. Moved around and re-hung countless times in the past few months which I discovered yesterday on the floor, the frame completely wrecked so I brought it home with me. The colored pencil drawing of shoes and socks in a hatbox that has hung in all of her homes since I created it in high school was temporarily missing, but, last night I found it tucked safely under her couch, so I brought that home with me as well. I must admit to you that I was really upset when I could not find that drawing and I had such an immense sense of relief after finding it—I had been grieving the loss of it all afternoon. I plan on reframing and hanging both pieces.

She has a few remaining more recent paintings of mine that hold less sentimental value for me that I plan on hanging in her new apartment. I don’t know if an actual move will snap her out of this loop and the paintings will remain hung on the walls or if the move will only cause further confusion. I don’t even know if she recognizes that it is her own daughter who created them or not. As I sift and curate and grieve this slow, prolonged loss of my mother, I am realizing that I’m holding out hope that she doesn’t forget me for a little bit longer—that she holds on to her little girl just a little bit longer.

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When I’m when I’m feeling particularly stressed or over-emotional, I find it helpful to write—a poem, an essay, stream of consciousness thoughts. I sat down this past Friday morning at a quiet cafe with a delicious iced latte and wrote this essay. When I was done I went to my mom’s apartment to pack up and sneak out more belongings while she was at lunch. Unfortunately I was shocked to find her on her bathroom floor—conscious but unable to get up. I don’t know whether she fell or passed out but she ended up being transported to the ER in an ambulance to be evaluated. Luckily no broken bones or head injuries, but she was diagnosed with Covid and admitted to the hospital. It’s been a rough weekend—she’s incredibly disoriented because she’s not in her familiar environment. Mercifully, it looks like she’ll be released from the hospital today. I don’t know that her apartment has ever felt like home to her. I don’t know what the “home” is that she’s been fixated on returning to…I do know that this experience has me feeling incredible anxiety over moving her to memory care.