Almost as an afterthought, I told the boys to pick out a book each to read to my mom, or Meemaw, as they call her. After careful consideration, Joe picked out "The Bear Snores On." J.P. selected one of my favorites, "The Night Gardener" (after I vetoed a book in "The Fly Guy" series, much to his chagrin).
When we arrived, my mom was sitting at a table in the common room, near the television, with Carol. She and Carol normally sit together and take their meals together. They're compatible, or so it seems, both laughing a lot and, as I've been told by staff, both with good appetites. I think they would have been friends in a different life. In fact, I'm sure of it.
Tracy, Alice and I have taken a liking to Carol. I've given her an issue or two of the New Yorker, because she seems to enjoy reading it, or actually, looking at it. It make me a little bit sad because I never see anyone visiting her. I don't know if she has any relatives in town. Perhaps they come during the week when I'm usually at work. I hope so.
When we arrived, Joe read his book first. Carol, especially listened raptly. She marveled at how well Joe could read. She asked J.P. two or three times how old Joe was. My mom held down the edges of the pages so Joe could focus on his reading. It was special, a shared moment between my mom and her youngest grandson.
It kills me, sometimes, to think that Joe will never get to experience my mom in her prime. She would have loved Joe's personality, his sense of humor and even his stubbornness. They would have gotten along famously and I think she would've taken a special interest in him as her youngest grandchild.
My mom used to keep J.P. for us on occasion, when he was 3 or 4, which seems like it was a lifetime ago. And, I guess it was. It's hard to believe she used to drive him to the Brentwood library to check out books and for story time. I can still see him in the playroom floor when I arrived to pick him up in the afternoons, surrounded by all of the toys of my youth. Now, the playroom is partially empty and partially full of boxes. The house is devoid of spirit and life, as no one has lived there in almost two years.
As J.P. read his book to my mom and Carol, my mom reached over and held Joe's hand. He looked at her and smiled. They continued to hold hands while J.P. read his book. I snapped a quick photo to capture the moment.
After the boys finished reading, they took turns rolling a styrofoam cylinder of some sort back and forth across the table to Carol, my mom and each other. Every time the cylinder rolled over to my mom, she pried it open and looked at in wonder. I gently took it away from her, pushed the edges back together rolled it across the table to Joe. They kept this up for a few minutes as I watched contentedly.
We left after a while and stopped by to visit a friend of mine's father who is at NHC Place to recuperate from complications he suffered after a knee replacement.
I wonder what my boys will remember about their Meemaw. I wonder what they'll take away from these visits with her near the end of her life. I hope these visits are positively impacting them in some way.
My sister, Tracy, sent me a text yesterday after I described our visit in a short text (and video) I sent to she and Alice. Below is what she said -
So sweet . . . love it. Through these visits, you're instilling even more compassion, patience, selflessness, and love in these boys than most kids their age. What a blessing that will serve them well, later in life.
I hope she's right. There's just no way to know what is the right thing to do in a situation like this. There's no blueprint, no handbook. All I can do is the best that I can.
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