Capturing memories

To save for old age

Photo by Frederik Löwer on Unsplash

We traveled to Florida after Memorial Day. An impromptu trip to help Joe’s mother.

Her world gets smaller with each move. I don’t envy this time in her life. Every day is a struggle. I hope she adjusts quickly. Her sweet smile brings joy to so many people. Especially others who have given up, or can’t remember their own names.

The move was relatively easy. Many things wouldn’t fit into her new space, so she had to be selective. What to keep and what to let go of. The biggest question in every move. All she kept were essentials, and a few items that bring her joy, like pictures of her family and assorted the statues: a schnauzer, a fancy lady and an angel.

We stopped to see her before heading home. She hugged me as if it would be the last time. So I hugged her right back. I won’t squander the opportunity. It’s the chance I didn’t get with my own mother.

Leaving her is hard on my husband. Parents don’t live forever. But he’s been blessed with her for 67 years. He beat me. I was orphaned at 64.

I watched my mother-in-law’s neighbors struggling to recognize the faces around them. An Egyptian woman with a heavy accent couldn’t decide where to sit. She wandered from chair to chair as the nurse asked her to sit down.

My heart ached for that woman. Her memories from long ago have to be confusing in this foreign land. Everything familiar has faded away.

Final days on this earth are hard for the elderly. They know death’s icy fingers are stretching closer each year, month, week, or day. How does a person not lose hope?

When I was sick I dreamt of being myself again. I wanted to have busy weekends with grandkids, beach time and boat rides. I wanted to travel to fun places and make new memories. I didn’t want to hurt anymore or be alone so much. My time in the hospital was a taste of what my future could be. Constant nursing care in a sterile world. Not one I want to inhabit yet.

Leaving my mother-in-law made me sad. She’s lost her autonomy. Others now have to care for her every need. My hope for her is that she can find some small joy each day. Or at least a good meal and something interesting on tv.

As I help her get dressed, I’m reminded that my successful transplant now gives me the possibility to live several more decades. I could even beat my grandmother’s record of 101 years old even though she was miserable in the end. It’s sad when the last years are so difficult. I’m not ready to imagine that future.

I want to be home making art and writing. I want to splash colors on the paper and allow for the magic of creativity to soothe my soul, bruised by cancer, hospital stays and chronic illness.

My niece brought up her grandmother’s end of life in conversation over dinner. The only person to say it out loud. My mother-in-law already has a space next to her beloved whom she lost almost 50 years ago.

Soon they can spend eternity together. Young and tan. Laughing and dancing. Her dark brown hair with a bow in the front, wearing a dress covered in black fringe. A joyous smile on her face. His dark eyes always fixed on her.

That’s how I see the afterlife. All the good parts get to be relived. A healthy body able to perform the way it hasn’t for years, in a place where you’ll find lost loved ones. They show up to a party to celebrate you. I’m sure the music will be good.

Now that my restrictions are lifted, I can move around the world of the living as if I belong again. I’m no longer chained to an IV pole shuffling, around my hospital room like a mouse looking for a crumb. I can make memories every day.

I’m free.

Before we went to Florida, my sons and grandkids came for a long weekend. We played at the beach, collecting a variety of shells. Too bad we couldn’t find any sharks teeth or pirate’s doubloons.

Riding in boats, we waved to each other as we bounced in the waves. I left my phone in my pocket so I could experience the moments we were together. New events becoming memories I will savor for years.

I’ll call them back when things get foggy.

Like the Egyptian lady looking for her chair.

And people who are familiar.

A reality that makes sense.