Green-Eyed Elegy

I think it was the scent of Cinnamon Apples that first greeted me when I entered the Hospice House in Blackshear Georgia, just the week before Christmas. Accustomed to being met with the more terse smells of a nursing home, I welcomed the change, however tinged it was by the circumstances of my arrival.

Evergreen foliage and a snow-flocked wreath with fairy-lighting graced the red door to the small cottage, giving the place the welcoming presence of a grandmother's home.

In the entry room, soft chairs and a divan covered with warm fuzzy throws flanked a crackling fireplace that welcomed visitors, though my heart yielded to sorrow the moment I stepped inside. A small tree stood in front of the picture window at the front of the room and an angel in a white gown stood watch at the top, wings outspread and ribbons in her hair.

No one greeted me when the small bell over the door was bumped by the silver hydraulic cylinder, but I knew where to go. I followed the convivial sound of my sibling's voices around the corner. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I convinced myself to stay "up" for them, to keep things as light as possible. There was no point in giving up hope if we didn't have to.

Unlike the usual polished floors of my visits to the other place, warm carpeting spread throughout the small house as I came through the square hallway and could see the door standing open. Inside, my brother and his grown children were standing around chatting with my sister and her grown children. I couldn't make out distinct voices, but there was warmth and muted noise with no definitive sound.

As I entered, I called out:

"Hi Mom!"

Though she'd had Alzheimer's and Dementia, up until two days before, she'd always been able to yell back: "Hi baby!"

No response came.

I accepted family hugs as they came and tried to not speak for fear of sobbing, with the occasional "Fine, how are you?" rearing it's familiar head.

Approaching mom's bedside, I noted her shallow breathing and tried to put a smile on for her. As I arrived to clasp her hand, a pair of bright green eyes opened, and somehow managed to slip over in my direction, where they reached right into my soul. For the first time in over a year, I could "see" her. For the first time in over a year, I knew that she could see me too.

I heard nothing of the chatter in the room from the others who were involved in their reunion. My mother and I stood in a vacuum of dull noise, looking at one another. Suddenly, I was a five-years old again, holding her hand and looking into those sharp, green eyes, seeing for the first time how proud she was of me; knowing that she loved me so much more than I could ever know.

I had expected that look to be accusatory for putting her in a nursing home when she should have been with one of us, but that wasn't it at all. We were following her wishes when we put her there, and that accusation of guilt was something I conjured all by myself. Mom told us shortly after her own mother died from complications due to Alzheimer's and Dementia that if it ever happened to her, to just put her in a nursing home and walk away.

Of course, we could never do that. My sister took mom home with her for a while but she became a flight risk and a danger to herself in just a few short months. She needed round-the-clock care, and none of us could keep up. We finally found the nicest place we could and we all made sure to visit. In a very short time, mom was unable to walk or perform basic functions. She couldn't even eat so we opted for a feeding tube with the hope that she might eventually beat it.

Mom fought it tooth and nail, too. She would sing or hum along with us, laugh at our jokes and try to talk even though it came out more like gibberish. She seemed happy where she was, but you never really get over seeing someone you love bed-ridden, especially someone as "alive" as my mother.

I stood next to her bed with her hand in mine that afternoon, finally letting go of the hope that she would ever recover. I wanted her to remember me the way I wanted to remember her, so I smiled at those green eyes, shaking her hand in my grasp a little.

Words never came. There would have been too much to say, and too little time remained. But my mother held my gaze, and conveyed so much in those last moments. In those eyes, I saw the stern look at JM Fields when I was touching things that might break, or that she couldn't afford; the glance over the back seat as we sang to the radio in her old station wagon. The summer air of those car rides with the windows down, touched my psyche and in those beautiful eyes, memories of a million shared moments filled me to the brim and spilled over.

Unable to speak, I just made sure to keep smiling, not letting the tears dampen the moment, and her eyes did the same. She squeezed my hand before she closed those sparkling green eyes and in that moment... my soul was complete.