It’s been over ten weeks since I last saw my mother in person. The call informing me that I could no longer enter her long-term care home came on Saturday afternoon, March 14^th. I had planned to visit her as usual on Sunday afternoon. While it was a bit of a shock to be banned from seeing my mother, I consoled myself that our private caregiver was still permitted in – at least someone representing the family would still have an eye on my mother’s wellbeing. Then that came to end as well, on Thursday morning, April 23^rd. Since then we have had to make do with telephone calls and a once weekly Skype call. I fully understand why these measures were taken, but it doesn’t make the current reality any easier.

It is challenging to judge my mother’s wellbeing over the phone. I can’t tell if there is a skin breakdown happening or if she is too hot/too cold in her room. I can’t monitor the inventory of supplies that she needs (tissues, toothpaste, body lotion, etc.) nor can I ensure that her humidifier is full and running smoothly. I can’t fix her TV if the electronics have been unplugged/unsynced again, and I can’t hold her hand or give her a hug. But my sister and I call regularly in an effort to break up the monotony of her days and to attempt to monitor her wellbeing through the quality of her voice and cognition. I always dial her number with a mixture of hope and trepidation. …

The phone begins to ring. I wonder if I’ll get an answer this time. My odds are about 50/50.

The phone gets picked up on the fifth ring. I wait. There is the sound of fumbling. Fully two seconds go by. Then, “HAH-llo”. Success!

“Hi, Mom. It’s Marina.”

“Hallo, Marina.” Her voice sounds strong and clear. Relief.

“I’m so glad I got you, Mom. How are you?” I’m speaking slowly, at half my normal speed, enunciating every word clearly.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good. Are you watching TV?”

“Yes, I’m watching TV.” She is surprisingly focused on the call. Usually when the television is on, she is mesmerized by it. That means she’s not paying attention to me or else the receiver on her old-fashioned landline phone has slipped below her ear. I’m guessing the volume on the TV is so low that I’m not really competing with it.

“What are you watching? National Geographic or the news channel?” Her favourites.

She mumbles something inaudible. Doesn’t really matter anyway – I’m just finding things to talk about with her to keep her engaged.

“I guess lunch will be there soon. Are they still keeping you in your room while you eat? You can’t go to the dining room right now, right?”

Silence, hesitation. I have asked too many questions and spoken too quickly. But I know the answer – all the residents are being kept in their rooms at all times for their own safety.

I try again, “Are you drinking enough fluids, Mom?”

“Yes, I’m drinking enough.” I’m not convinced. She has a history of getting dehydrated and now there is no family or private caregiver there to ensure she drinks enough juice and water – we have to hope the well-meaning but overworked staff in the home are paying attention. Her room faces south and is flooded with sun much of the day. She gets too hot but doesn’t notice and then begins to wilt like an untended flower.

“OK. Make sure to please keep up the good work. It’s really important for you to drink lots, especially now that it is getting hotter outside.”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken to Sue today?” This question is always a bit of a test. I usually know if she has or hasn’t spoken with my sister (we text constantly) and so it is a check on her memory and grasp of reality. Lately she’s becoming less and less reliable.

“Yes, I spoke with Sue.” Today this response is accurate, but then again she had even odds of getting it right. …

“So, Mom, today is Saturday. Saturday, May 30^th.” I have recently added this information as a regular feature of our calls after she completely forgot my sister’s birthday earlier in the month. I later discovered she didn’t even realize it was May because the calendar on the wall in her room is still turned to April. And being isolated in her room, with all the group activities in her home and the twice weekly trips to her day program outside the home cancelled, she now has no points of reference to keep her oriented.

“Oh my, it’ll soon be June!”

“Yes, on Monday. Do you know what the first of June is?”

Pause. “No?”

“It’s my birthday!”

“Your birthday?!” She is disbelieving, surprised even.

“Yup. My birthday. The day you became a mother for the first time.” The birthdays of her two daughters used to be the highlight of her life. Our birthdays gave her life meaning – being our mother was always her primary job and an intrinsic part of her identity. On our birthdays she would set a special “birthday table” filled with cards, flowers and our gifts. It is a sign of how deeply her dementia is setting in that she doesn’t remember either date anymore. But I console myself that she still knows our names and other details, that she is still verbal at all.

“How are the boys?” This is her usual go-to question. She may not remember birthdays, but she’s still keenly aware that she has two grandsons.

I fill her in as best I can, given that nothing much has changed since our last conversation a couple of days ago. I wrack my brain for something interesting or funny to share with her. And I reassure her that the boys are well, if a bit bored with their current situation.

Then I update her on any news from her sisters in Europe. After I natter on inconsequentially for a bit longer, I begin to wrap up the call, “I guess your lunch will be arriving soon. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you.” She is unfailingly polite, even now.

“Make sure you drink all your water and juice.” One more reminder, mostly to make me feel better.

“Yes, I will.”

“Enjoy your lunch. I’ll call you again soon. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“OK, Mom. Bye, bye. Make sure you hang up the phone properly.”

“Bye, Marina.”

Even these short telephone calls are exhausting and hard work, trying to keep the conversation going. The Skype calls (made possible with the help of the staff in her home) are challenging as well – it is hard to hold Mom’s attention, with the volume too low or the video on the call often not working well. Nonetheless, it is always a relief to see her face, however briefly. And I think (and hope) that seeing our faces does her good as well.

So far we have been fortunate. Mom has been swabbed for COVID three times to date (two were routine and one was because they were concerned about a cough she had developed) and all the results have returned negative. The home itself currently has two residents and three staff (all on another unit) who have tested positive, one of whom is now deemed a recovered case. My sister and I have been pleased with the forthright communication we have received from the home and so far we feel assured that there is sufficient and compassionate staff present to take care of the residents there. But we also know we have to some extent just been lucky.

The two of us also sit in on the weekly Zoom calls with the home’s Family Council whenever we can and must commend the wonderful and caring family members who are asking pointed questions and actively involved in supporting the residents and staff at the home as best they can while following the challenging physical distancing rules. So far they have participated in a drive-by parade of decorated cars to cheer up the residents and staff, organized a clap in/clap out event for the staff during shift change to celebrate Nurses Week (with one family member making a very touching video of the event), and provided each staff member with a specially designed thank you card. One couple arranged for tablets to be donated to help facilitate Skype calls, and there is ongoing discussion about beautifying the grounds and planting flowers. The generosity and creativity of this group is endless.

When all is said and done what I want more than anything at this point is to hold my mother’s hand and rest my cheek against hers.  She may no longer be the vibrant woman who raised me, but I love her and it’s important that she feel that. I miss her more than I ever expected to, and I look forward to the time when I am once again allowed to visit her.