I hadn’t had a good visit with her in more than two years. Why should I expect something different this time? During those visits, ‘Moop’ (as we call her) had been dead asleep. Or if awake, she was ornery. On one occasion, she was downright mean. I’d pat her on the shoulder gently and tell her I loved her; she’d swat my hand away and scowl at me. Making matters worse, her caregiver said she’d been pleasant just before I arrived.
But I knew I couldn’t travel across the country and not at least check in on Moop. So I put on my yellow Piggly-Wiggly T-shirt—which has always elicited a smile from her in the past—and with trepidation, I went to the Arboretum, a memory-care facility where she lives, with husband Nick by my side for support.
Entering the communal area, I saw Emma, one of the caregivers who has tended my mother for years. It was 4:45 p.m., and most of the residents were seated in the dining area, about to have dinner.
“Jimmy!,” Emma called out to me. We walked over and exchanged hugs.
Beside Emma was my mother, her back to us, in her wheelchair. She turned around, as best she could, and smiled. “Heyyyyy,” she said.
“I brought you a happy meal,” I said, showing both Moop and Emma the cup of Coke and the paper bag containing the child-sized hamburger and fries. Emma wheeled Moop to the other side of the room, where we could visit with her away from the other residents, whose blank stares were focused on us.
“Oooh, she’s gonna like that,” Emma said in her thick Jamaican accent.
Emma put Moop’s hamburger on a plate and cut it into four pieces. She brought me a smaller cup to pour the Coke into, so it would be easier for Moop to hold.
Moop smiled and spoke gibberish, as she normally does. She emphasized some unintelligible words with raised eyebrows, a head nod, a smile. I nodded my head, too, to convey I understood her, though I had no idea what she was saying.
I patted her arm gently, noticing how thin and fragile my 99-year-old mother’s body had become. She held out her hand, all bones and deep purple veins. for me to take. When I did, she gave my hand a weak squeeze. I showed her my Piggly Wiggly T-shirt; she smiled.
Alternately, Moop drank from her small cup of Coke and brought a piece of hamburger to her mouth slowly. She chewed in silence for long stretches of time, or at least, it felt like long stretches of time. The world had slowed down; the minutes ticked by. I felt the deep fatigue of so many visits with so many people over the past week and a half.
Across the card table, Nick smiled and blew a subtle kiss to me from time to time, signaling his support.
Moop began to close her eyes as she slowly chewed a bit of hamburger. Was she going to fall asleep? Was she already asleep? At times it was hard to tell. I’d gently touch her shoulder and she’d open her eyes again. After awhile, she stopped smiling and gazed at me vacantly.
Nick and I had arrived nearly two hours earlier, and I was ready—though hesitant—to leave. It had been a good visit. Moop not only recognized me, she was pleasant, even a little affectionate, to me. But she appeared to be winding down, ready to resume what occupied most of her time now: sleep.
Emma and a colleague of hers I’d just met (and whose name I can’t recall) came over to check on us. I gave them a report of how the visit had gone, and that we were about to leave. I leaned over and kissed Moop’s forehead several times.
She perked up and looked directly into my eyes. And then she said something miraculous, something that all of us could clearly understand.
“I love you!”
I told Moop I loved her, too, and kissed her forehead again. Nick looked astonished. Emma put her hand over her heart. Her colleague’s eyes were wide.
“She hardly ever says complete sentences,” Emma remarked.
Suddenly, I didn’t want to leave. What if this would be my final opportunity to enjoy my mother’s company? Shouldn’t I try to stretch this moment for as long as possible?
But the moment had come and gone. It wasn’t long before Moop closed her eyes again. She’d finished her Coke. She’d eaten half her hamburger, which Emma said was more than usual. She’d munched two or three french fries. When Moop opened her eyes again, she looked at me blankly, then closed them.
It was time to go. To linger might be to make the winning gambler’s mistake of continuing to play as the dice grow cold.
I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Moop. So I kissed her once more and simply said, “I’ll see you again.” She nodded but didn’t open her eyes. As Nick and I walked toward the car, I was already wondering how soon I could get back to see her.
Postscript: In recent weeks, several of my sisters have reported equally sweet visits with Moop.
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