Interloper

Yesterday, against my better judgment, I left the office at lunch at drove to NHC Place.  Tracy and Alice had finished disposing of and moving my mom's things out of her room in the Courtyard.  I wanted to see the room one more time before it's occupied by someone else.

It was a gray, rainy and dreary day, which might have contributed to my somber mood.  Seeing my mom's room - empty for the most part - didn't help.  Damn, I miss her.

It's funny, but NHC Place in general and the Courtyard in particular represented a kind of oasis for me.  Maristone was the same way, when my mom was living there.  When I stopped by, in the middle of my busy work and family life, I was able to be completely present in the moment with my mom.  My life outside the walls of NHC Place - and all of the concerns and stress associated with it - receded into the background, at least for a little bit.

It was like low tide at the beach.  I knew the concerns and stress of my daily life would come back as soon as I left the building and got into my car.  But for an hour or so, when I was with my mom or visiting with other residents or just talking to the staff, in some ways I was in a blissful, worry free state.  I was focused on my mom.  My mom in the present and not how my mom would be in a month or two.  That state of being, for me, was refreshing and, maybe, energizing.

I remember in the early days at Maristone, I often stopped by in the middle of the afternoon to see my mom.  Her apartment always was warm.  Reclined in her chair, watching television, she encouraged me to take a nap.  On several occasions, I laid down on her couch, in my suit, and fell asleep for a few minutes.  A "twenty minute nap," as she used to call it when we were growing up.  I woke up feeling safe, secure and happy.  It made her feel motherly, I think, to watch me nap.  It made her happy, too.

When I walked the halls at NHC Place on my way to see my mom in the Courtyard or just to stretch my legs, I felt at home.  Strangely, I felt like I belonged there, like I had a stake in the place.  I felt comfortable.  I spoke to staff and residents, including those I didn't know, and shared a smile with everyone,  trying to make each person's day a little better.  I had a purpose there.

Yesterday and the previous Sunday, too, when I stopped by NHC Place, I felt like an interloper.  Like I didn't belong.  That made me feel even more sad.  Yes, I talked to several residents - Ann, Sarah Dunn and Carol - and interacted with them.  I made them smile and that made me happy if for just a minute or two.  I still couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't part of the family, though.

It's an odd and sad sensation, I think.  Losing my mom and, simultaneously, losing my relationships with everyone in the Courtyard at NHC Place.  Part of me wants to be there, maybe to feel more strongly the memory of my mom through my interactions with staff and residents.  It's like her presence it still there, somehow, but it's fading away quickly and I want to feel it for as long as I can before it's gone forever.

I honestly don't know which is better for me from a healing standpoint - a clean break from NHC Place or staying involved there by visiting residents or volunteering in some capacity.

It's all so very confusing.