Notes from the nursing home

I wish I had something profound to say, but I'm not that deep.  Mom lived for 89 years; the first 75 were pretty damn good, and the last 14, not so much, but still, she had a good run.

And the one saving grace about dementia is that even as it is taking you away, piece by piece, it also erases your ability to realize what is happening.

I will tell you what, people talk smack about nursing homes all. the. time., but the facility mom was in was excellent.  Everyone, from the nurses to the aides to the janitors, cared about the residents.  All of the residents were clean, and well-fed, and entertained, and genuinely loved by the staff.

And that's saying something, when you're talking about patients with advanced dementia.

There was the woman who was constantly angry.  "Stop looking at me!," she'd mutter.  "I'll come over there and knock your lights out, I swear to God.  It's a conspiracy, I tell ya!  A conspiracy!"  That went on 24-7.  I never did see her sleep, although I supposed she must have, some time.

Then there was the Cookie Monster.  Starting on Friday morning, there was a hospitality cart in the hall outside mom's room at all times.  In the mornings it would have coffee and hot tea and juice and muffins, and in the afternoons and evenings it would have bottled water and soda and cookies and snack crackers.  It was meant for the guests visiting mom, but one of the residents would make raids on the cart.  She'd wheel up furtively in her wheelchair, grab a package of cookies or a muffin, rip the wrapping off with her teeth like she was pulling the pin out of a grenade, and then tear off down the hall, eating as she went.  Sometimes she'd stash her prize in an empty tissue box she carried around, and sometimes she'd hide stuff in the aides' carts.  The woman liked her sweets, is what I'm saying.

And then there was the one staff member who gave me pause.  After mom died, my sister Ditzy and Ditzy's boyfriend and I spent some more time with her, and then Ditzy's boyfriend went to alert the staff, who did a final check and then called the funeral home and started making arrangements.  They sent up a pair of aides to prepare mom for the funeral home, and the one aide, well ...

Let's put it this way.  I spent a lot, a lot of time in that nursing home over the last two weeks, at all hours of the day and night, and I was pretty sure I knew all of the staff.   But this dude ... anybody see the movie "Phantasm"?  And in the movie, there's that creepy dude in the funeral home? The Tall Man?

This aide looked just like that guy.  I'm not even kidding.  I had never seen him in the home before the night that mom died.  I'm really, really glad they sent another aide along with him, one who I did know, because I would not have felt comfortable having that creepster alone in the room with my mom.

But even he provided a bit of macabre comic relief.  Many jokes about zombies and basements were made, courtesy of creepy aide dude.

In the end, the room was nice and quiet.  Per her wishes, mom was not hooked up to any monitors or devices.  The room was dark, and it was just my sister, my sister's boyfriend, me, and my mom.  Her breathing became somewhat labored and rapid toward the end, and then her breathing quieted, and her breaths came less often, and then her breathing stopped and she was gone.  Just ... gone.

And I'll tell you what, it may seem kind of odd, but I don't fear death anymore.  I've seen it, it's been in the room with me, and I'm not afraid of it.  Her passing was beautiful.

Rest in peace, mom.