I look at my mother sitting across from me in her wheelchair, a wheeled hospital-style overbed table situated between us. Her head is bowed and she appears to be asleep. This has become her usual position in recent years, only more so than ever during the past few weeks.
“Mom, it’s your turn!” I say loudly. She looks up vaguely. Then her head drops again.
“Mom, you have to roll the dice!” This time she responds, weakly shaking the cup holding the five dice and letting them fall out of the container onto the surface of the table. I inspect the results, “OK, you have three fives. Try to get two more fives and you’ll get your Yahtzee.” She rolls twice more, but comes up short – we settle for three-of-a-kind, with a respectable score.
And so it goes, back and forth – she rolls and I strategize what she should do. It doesn’t really matter who wins: I am here to spend time with my mother and give her some much-needed mental stimulation. The months of lockdown have robbed her of so much – my weekly visits, my sister’s quarterly visits from the States, the daily companionship of her paid caregivers, twice weekly trips to her day program outside the home, and the social and musical activities normally offered in the home. Recently even her physiotherapy has had to be cancelled due to an outbreak of COVID in the home – the numbers sit at 15 residents and 12 staff. Everyone in the home and on the Family Council is holding their breath, fingers crossed that this outbreak will be brought under control.
Just being here with her in her room in the long-term care home has been a journey in and of itself. Initially no one was allowed into the home at all. Over the summer, we could schedule 30-minute visits outdoors or in the lobby, but these were always cancelled the minute a COVID case turned up among the staff or residents, and we had to wait two weeks for the outbreak to be declared over.
After public pressure from families and advocacy groups for seniors throughout Ontario, in August the provincial government allowed each resident (or their family) to designate two “essential visitors” who could have access even during outbreaks in the long-term care homes. Our primary paid caregiver and I signed up, which entailed doing online training and signing off on a significant amount of paperwork. It also required us to attest to being COVID-free, meaning we needed to get nasal swabs done every two weeks. In mid-November (with the onset of the “second wave”), we now need to be tested weekly.
Upon arrival at the long-term care home today, I am given a surgical mask to replace my own cloth mask – I wear it under the face shield I was given when signing up as an essential visitor. My temperature is taken, and I sign a document stating I do not have symptoms of or known exposure to COVID, then show my latest swab test result. I don a gown and gloves supplied by the home. Then I punch the ever-changing elevator code to access the second floor. There I am faced with a new challenge – the door to my mother’s unit is locked and I have no means of getting in. My knock goes unanswered, so I begin to dial the number for reception when unexpectedly a helpful staff member opens the door for me.
I have the feeling that initially my mother doesn’t even recognize me. I don’t blame her – only my hair and parts of my face are visible, and I am attired in the same yellow gown that everyone in the home wears. Her afternoon snack arrives shortly after I do, and I feed her the juice which has a “honey thick” consistency (to prevent her from choking and aspirating it into her lungs). I give her the yogurt to eat herself. The evening-shift nurse, a steady and reliable presence since Mom moved there in 2018, drops in to say hi. He tells me that my mother seems perkier than usual with me there. He also says he now regularly has to feed my mother her meals – a new development during the past few months. I find this revelation a little alarming, as until recently Mom was a great eater and was capable of feeding herself.
The nurse leaves and it suddenly hits me how warm I feel. The temperature in Mom’s room is about 23C (74F) and with the PPE on, I find I am perspiring. I have already topped up the humidifier, which was once again dry when I arrived. My hands are jammed in the one-size-too-small gloves and my skin is itchy thanks to the sanitizer I applied before donning the gloves. I wonder again how the staff stand wearing all this PPE for eight hours at a time: I’m only there for two hours and I’m just sitting in my mother’s room, not doing the “heavy lifting” of working with multiple residents. I marvel at these hardworking and caring nurses, PSWs, dietary aids, housekeeping staff and maintenance personnel. And our private caregiver, of course. I idly wonder how they manage going to the bathroom wearing all this gear.
To further stimulate my mother mentally, I have turned on the radio since her neurologist has said countless times that music is good for her. Someone has tuned it to a station playing Christmas music. Although my mother was always a classical music devotee, I decide to leave the festive station on. Outside the window, I can see the snow falling – our first snowfall of the season. I point it out to my mother.
“Mom, do you know what month it is?”
She hesitates and ventures, “December?” I give her a pass on this one. Between the weather and the music, I can’t blame her for not knowing it’s still November.
“How about we call Sue?” It is part of our routine to chat with my sister via video when I visit. I dial and my sister picks up on the third ring. Despite the small screen on my phone, they can see each other clearly. My sister waves and blows kisses, my mother responds in kind. Then she drops her head again. The ensuing conversation is more between my sister and me than with my mother, but at least they have seen each other. My sister signs off with “I love you, Mom” and my mother responds with “I love you too.” This she is still capable of.
I reflect on how life has come full circle. When I was a child, my parents, sister and I spent many a winter Sunday afternoon playing board games as a family. Here my mother and I are on another Sunday afternoon, playing a board game together. The difference is that I am now the one guiding her through the rules of the game and best strategy instead of vice versa.
As our visit comes to an end, I bend over to kiss my mother good-bye and am rudely reminded of the face shield that separates us. Probably just as well in these COVID days, but for a brief moment I forgot. I tell her I love her, as her head once again descends to her chest. Silently I promise her I’ll be back again as soon as I get cleared by my next COVID test.
Lovely account of your visit. Your Mom is truly blessed to have the care that she does- from the residence, the paid caregiver and most importantly from you and from your sister, hers albeit from a distance.
A sweet lady who raised 2 beautiful daughters. ❤️?
Thanks for your generous words, Pam. I know you had your turn too. Never easy.
So, you made me cry! Beautifully written! Give Mom a hug for me, please, until I can give her one myself again. Xoxo
Sorry, didn’t mean to bring tears. I felt compelled to share our current experiences during this challenging time, while also dealing with the mix of emotions seeing our mother slowly “disappearing” into her own world. <3
Me too, Sue! Marina you capture the effort and strain … and the love in remarkably clear and thoughtful language. Thank you for sharing this strange and difficult part of the journey you are on with you mom. Love to all of you!
Thanks so much for your generous words, Jill! Not always easy to experience or write about, but it is ultimately about family and love. We all take our turn sooner or later and do our best.
I love reading your blogs…thanks for sharing. Stay strong, my dear friend! Love and best wishes to your Mom and my Aunt Elfi! Xoxo
Thanks, Jane. I will pass on your best wishes. 🙂
I read this eagerly, but with a sore heart, as it reminds me so much of visiting my mum (minus the COVID interventions). Mum died almost ten years ago, now, and the memories are very sweet. I’m so happy for your mum that she has you. Stay safe ❤
Thanks, Jane. So many of us have experienced similar things. Always a mixture of joy and sadness.
Very beautifully written…..as always………great description of the bond between mother and daughters. You are lucky to be living close to your mom.
I moved to Canada 20 years ago. Now that my parents are getting old and living far away….i sometimes doubt my decision of moving this far. Enjoy their company and hug them as much as you can. She is lucky to have you.
Thank you, Aalam! Yes, being separated at this time is very difficult indeed – I know my sister is experiencing this. And my mother was the daughter who moved away (her two sisters took care of her parents as they aged) and I know she suffered a lot of guilt in her day for not being there to help out. Hopefully you can connect via letter, telephone and/or video. Best of luck to all of you.
Hello, this is beautiful to read and “see”. Thank you for sharing. It is comforting as I too have an almost 88 year old mother who I care for. The difference is my mom lives with me and so I care for her daily. She does not remember well and only eats when I prepare meals. But I am grateful, like you, for the time we have together. You are so blessed to have your beautiful mom in your life. Some days may be sad as we watch our moms become frail and forgetful, but it is an amazingly wonderful reminder that they are the few lucky ones who are living a long, full life, completing the full circle of life. Enjoy many more precious moments with mom – even with covid times and wearing PPE and all that. Love is more powerful than anything, and that includes covid.
Thank you, Susan! Your strength and positive spirit shine through in your wise words. Your mother is very fortunate to have you taking care of her. I wish you all the very best on your journey – please make sure to take care of yourself as well.
Thanks for sharing your personal journey.
I too am experiencing similar feelings for both my parents who are declining rapidly.
I echo your accolades for the staff and PSWs. They are my hero’s.
Thanks, Janice! So sorry to hear of your parents’ decline – so hard to witness. And blessings on all the wonderful healthcare workers who take such good care of them. Best of luck to your family during these challenging times.
Really moving ! My own experience is that the umbilical cord never gets severed. Not even after death, if you believe in spirituality.
I was overseas when my mom neared her last days. My youngest sister, but elder to me had just phoned me to reach ASAP. My mom keot looking at me as if she never knew who I was. Held her hand for almost two hours and I thought she had dozed off.
After showering, when I went back to her, her care giver shreiked and started also sobbing uncontrollably.
Thanks mom for all you have ever given to me or wished for me.
In continuation to my post of today, I would be happy to share some YouTube links with anyone who is interested in being exposed to the basics of Spirituality.
No books to buy, or read. Just listening to some real life experiences !
Wow! Thank you for sharing that. I live with and care for my mom. She’s 88. I cherish our coffee and newspaper together. My father died at home in October at 92. We had palliative care for him. We manage(d) to keep them both at home with the effort of my siblings, especially my sisters and our wonderful PSW!
Thanks, Tom! As with so much, it takes a village – glad your family and PSW have been able to make it work. Good that you can still enjoy time with your mother. Take care.
What a good read! It felt like someone “gets it”! These experiences are common I am sure, but not shared. As a working mom and caregiver we fill out Saturdays and Sundays caring, cleaning and and worrying. It is rare to find someone to connect with who understands mixed emotions that come along with the sandwich generation. You nailed it so well in this post. Thank you.
Thanks, Jane! Yes, it’s tough on so many levels being a parent and a caregiver – we all do our best in our unique circumstances. Glad my description struck a chord. Don’t forget to be kind to yourself.