"Bernadine, I love you. Bernadine, where are you? I need you, Bernadine," he said. Every sentence either started or ended with Bernadine. "Bernadine, I'm sorry. Bernadine, I didn't mean it. I love you, Bernadine..." I could not see the man who was outside in the hall as I sat by Mom's bedside in January. I wondered if Bernadine is his wife, a daughter, or a caretaker. I wondered if Bernadine was even alive. The plaintive pleadings went on for a half hour, before the old man finally went on down the hall.
Such is life in a nursing home. Mom was very ill in January, and I was sitting with her for the day. My job was simply to be there with her, to observe her, and to feed her at mealtime. We were trying to decide whether or not she needed to go to the hospital. Though she got a flu shot, she also seemed to have gotten the flu, and it took a full three weeks for her to recover. Ten people in the nursing home died during that period of time from a variety of causes including the flu.
Yesterday, I took Mom for her every other month visit to her primary care doctor. Dr. Hashim Raza is a rock star in our family's eyes. He has never given up on Mom, through some very serious illnesses and times when ALL other medical personnel told us to be prepared for the worst. Dr. Raza just keeps on believing that Mom's life has value, and we are so grateful for his devotion.
Mom was having a bad day yesterday with her dementia, but she knew Dr. Raza and she knew me. Dr. Raza wasn't so sure that Mom knew me, until I asked her where in the world I got my middle name. "It was my Mother's name," she retorted a little indignantly. Maybe she thought that I had forgotten that fact. I just smiled and said, "I know that, Mom." Alzheimer's comes in all sorts of forms. Mom remembers so much, though she has forgotten so much.
When I first arrived to pick up Mom, I found her walking in the hall, shuffling determinedly behind her walker. "Where are you headed?" I asked. "I'm looking for Demps," she said. "Two women took him and they are in one of these rooms right over here. I want him back. I need to put lotion on his toes." Demps is my Dad and he passed away Dec. 21, 1995. We buried him on Christmas Eve that year, the day after burying one of his sisters, Aunt Ethyl, in the same cemetery. Half of both of Dad's feet were amputated two years before he died, due to complications of heart surgery and Diabetes 2. His amputation wounds took over a year to heal and required many trips to assorted specialists and a wound clinic. Mom was diligent in caring for Dad in his semi-invalid final years.
I knew immediately that she was having a bad day emotionally. She was, however, using the walker and not the wheelchair, so that was a positive. She mentioned Dad several times during the day, always believing that he is alive and that she needed to find him.
It was dinner time when we got back to the home, so I paid for a meal ticket and took a seat at the table with Mom and Miss Edna, her darling table-mate. Miss Edna was not feeling too well, I could tell; but she was her usual kind self, greeting Mom and me warmly. When Mom was so sick in January, I did take her to the dining room for one meal, and Miss Edna just beamed with joy. "I've been so worried about you," she told Mom. "You need to take care of yourself." Of course, in Mom's world, "take care of yourself" means eat a good meal and take your medicines; because those are about the only aspects of her health that she can control.
Near the end of the meal, I heard him. "Bernadine, I love you." And I got my first look at the owner of the formerly-disembodied voice. After he had cried out several times, a worker went over and told him that Bernadine was at work today. "She must have had a meeting or something, because she had to stay late," the attendant said. I have no idea if that is true or not. I still do not know if Bernadine is a wife or a daughter or even alive, but the tall man in a wheelchair was reassured and quietened. I did, however, learn that the old man is blind.
When I took Mom back to her room, she wanted to lie down. Before I left, she started talking about Dad again, showing me the special lotion she had for his toes. I reminded her that Dad was waiting in Heaven. "I know that," she reassured me. "But he came back." I cannot argue with that. He is there with her somehow. I wish the old man who loves Bernadine had the same reassurance.
UPDATE December, 2015: Miss Edna, the man who loves Bernadine, and Mom are all gone now. Mom died this spring, and we face Christmas this year without any blood relatives from her generation. Mom, though, has found Dad now forever, and I trust that she doesn't need the lotion for his feet.
Comments (8)Subscribe to CommentsComment