Mother's Day and a Return to Happier Times

Last Sunday was Mother's Day, my first one without a mother to celebrate.  The word that best describes the entire weekend is desultory.  I went through the motions of living my life but in reality, I was on autopilot.  Sunday, of course, was tough.  

Shortly after my mom died, I penned a long thank you note to the staff in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was living before she died.  For one reason or another, though, I never printed the letter and took it by there, although I had intended to do so many times.  I even had ordered photographs of my mom so I could attach them to the letter for staff and residents to see.  

I woke up on day and three months had passed since my mother's death on January 31, and I hadn't been back to NHC Place. 

I knew that needed to change and, although I knew it would be gut wrenching, I decided to visit on Mother's Day.  So, after church on Sunday, I drove to NHC Place in Franklin, TN, and walked in for the first time since I got the call from a nurse on January 24 to tell me that something had happened to my mom overnight.  

Nancy, the weekend receptionist, smiled when she saw me, stood up and said, "Mr. Newman!"  Still smiling, she said, "you used to always bring donuts."  We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then I walked down the hall to the Courtyard and as I did, a flood of memories overwhelmed me.  

How many times had I made that walk down the hall on the way to see my mom?  So many, but not enough, I feel.

I punched in the code and walked into the Courtyard, not without trepidation.  Tears filled my eyes as I saw several familiar faces among the residents, going about their daily activities.  It was like my mom hadn't died and I had never left.  Then, I realized there were a few faces missing.  

I walked up behind a home health care employee who always sits up front with her patient.  She turned around, grinned, stood up and gave me a hug.  

"I was just thinking about you and your mom," she said.  "I miss her." 

"I do, too," I replied.  

I saw Dahlia and a couple of other staff members.  It was a little bit awkward for them, I think, probably because they could see that I was struggling with my emotions.  I think they knew it was my first time back in the Courtyard and, really, they weren't quite sure what to say.  I hugged them, anyway, and that made me feel better.  Hopefully, it made them feel better, too.

I walked back to my mom's apartment, growing more - nervous, I guess - with every step I took down the hall.  There was no photograph on the outside of her door, so it was apparent that no one was living there.  That surprised me and, I think, saddened me a little bit, too.  I walked inside and the powerful sense of nostalgia almost knocked me off my feet.  I looked in the closets and drawers hoping to find some remnant of my mother's life there, but there was nothing left behind. 

It was such an indescribably weird feeling, just standing in this apartment where mom spent the last months of her life.  I looked at the bed and I couldn't help but recall, in vivid detail, how she lay there helplessly surrounded by staff, a nurse and a doctor, when I rushed in on the morning of January 24, so different than when I had seen her the afternoon before.  It was almost real.  

I left the apartment after a few minutes and walked down the hall.  I could see some residents who had been there three months ago were gone and some new residents had arrived.  I continued into the common area and I stopped, again, just to look at everyone.  

It was then and there that I realized why I had felt drawn to return to NHC Place - to the Courtyard - on Mother's Day.  

I saw Ms. Ann, who lived in Aspen Arbor when my mom moved in there in October 2017.  She smiled up at me from her wheelchair.  In recognition?  Perhaps or perhaps not.  But she certainly knew I was a friendly face.  

"Ann, how are you?" I said.

"I'm better now," she replied.  Still smiling.  "We had some good times, didn't we?"  

Ann actually said that to me, word for work. 

"We sure did, Ann.  We sure did," I answered.  

I walked around the room and greeted Ms. Deana, Ms. Sarah and last, but not least, Ms. Carol.

My mom shared a table with Carol every day.  They read magazines together and they ate together.  They were compatible.  I used to sneak Carol ice cream when I brought it for my mom, although she wasn't supposed to eat sweets.  Carol was so grateful and always thanked me profusely.  My boys, J.P. and Joe, used to read books to my mom and Carol.  

Dahlia walked up and joined us.  She tried to remind Carol who I was and, more importantly, who my mom was.  

"Remember Ms. Jane, Carol?  She used to sit with you."  Dahlia said.  

Carol looked at Dahlia blankly, then at me.  There wasn't a glimmer of remembrance of my mom and the times they spent together.  That made me sad.

I gave Carol a hug, said a quiet goodbye to Dahlia, and left. 

Happy Mother's Day, mom.  I miss you and I love you.