On Wednesday, I spent the evening with my not-my-Aunt G in the skilled nursing facility. It’s her permanent address now. The cognitive decline she masked so well in her home of 40+ years is painfully visible. Sometimes she knows that she’s confused. She has the cruel moments of clarity that remind me what I am losing but more often she is almost a stranger or perhaps, I am to her.
She was sitting on her bed, her preferred seat, and I was teasing her by sitting in her wheelchair, using my feet to steer myself around the room. She was laughing and called me her ridiculous boyfriend. Not-my-Aunt G rarely recognizes me these days but the boyfriend label was a bit of a surprise, I have to say. I asked her if she knew who I was.
She looked at me with those dark, deep-set, green eyes and said again, “You’re my boyfriend.” There’s a lot to unpack with that statement, right? How do I even respond? Do I, as current thinking suggests, just meet her where she is and play along? On Wednesday, that was hard to do. Usually, it isn’t a problem because I maintain my identity. It’s just our location that changes – we’re on Parade Street, we’re working at a deli, we’re in her house.
This time it was different. She was lost somewhere in the past. I told her my name. She didn’t recognize it. I mentioned some other people she knows but they too were not familiar. She was afraid, telling me that we were in a “bad neighborhood.” She knew she was safe with me but she kept asking me not to leave her, to please take her home, as though I were about to abandon her in a place where she wasn’t safe. She was trying not to cry, standing at the entrance to her room, waving at me. I had to go. The doors to the wings of the SNF were already closed for the night. Her night nurse promised to check in on her regularly. Would that even help?
Her experiences melded with mine as I drove home – a long dark drive on a mostly empty highway – to a cacophony of voices and sounds in my head. How many times have I left someone in a place they didn’t want to be? How many more will I experience? And what will happen when it’s my turn? Do people avoid visiting nursing homes because they fear the elderly or because they fear their own mortality, their own lonely futures?
Next time I see her, not-my-Aunt G will not remember the details of this latest visit. That’s probably a kindness. It would be better, of course, if her strongest memories were more joyful, if those memories influenced her current experiences. That doesn’t seem to be how it works. Instead, she talks about her mom as though we’re both teenagers and her mom is struggling to stretch their income to feed everyone.
It’s hard to shake these thoughts. It’s the worst time of year: cold, darker. There’s pressure to feel or pretend a joy that is probably antithetical for many of us. After every visit, I listen to my noisy thoughts as I drive – the sounds of the elderly crying out for a help that no one can provide, the fear in my not-my-aunt’s voice, the dismissal of caring but criminally overworked caregivers. The sounds of my husband, my mother-in-law, my mom, my grandmothers blend like car noises on a busy street.
What’s the answer? If only I knew. I visit not-my-Aunt G selfishly because it gives me comfort to see her, even though she is nearly lost to me. It is a melancholy choice. It’s so easy to remember people the way they were. Actually participating in their current lives definitely offers unexpected gifts but spending any time among the forgotten elderly will change you in ways you can’t choose and probably wouldn’t.
On my next visit, I’ll take a half dozen Christmas cookies and since I make a huge selection of cookies throughout December, I suspect that I’ll get to continue giving her new varieties all month. I’ll wear my holiday socks and tell her stories that I’ve already told her. Perhaps I’ll play a different role next visit. I don’t much like being her boyfriend but maybe we can work together at that deli, making turkey sandwiches.
Wishing you good health and good friends this holiday season.
Much love.
