Come See Me

Resolve to be tender with the young,

compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving,

and tolerant with the weak and the wrong.

Sometime in your life you will have been all of these.

-Dr. Robert H. Goddard

 

 

I have heard this short little request countless times over the years.  My grandmother used to say it all the time to us, the grandchildren.  It was pure joy to receive a visit from any one of us, short or long.  The length of the stay didn't matter.  Just to see our faces when she opened the door, her genuine smile and laughter lighting up her entire aging body.  And even when she could no longer answer the door and her weak and failing body laid helpless in a bed, we'd still hear her little voice say as we turned to go...

 

"Come see me ..."

 

That haunts me.  Still.

My own mother began tacking that on the end of her phone conversations the last few years before her passing...

"... okay ... well, come see me…"

Sunday afternoon I made some festive Christmas brownies and placed them in a decorative container.  I attached a bag of Russell Stover chocolates to a grapevine wreath adorned with an adorable stuffed Santa, making it appear to be his "bag of goodies."  I signed a Christmas card and included a warm greeting of love, enclosing a family picture of the five of us taken at The Union Grill after one of Big G's games.  (Voila!  We have a decent picture of all five of us.  Mission accomplished!)

 

It was pouring the rain on my drive home from work yesterday.  I pulled into the parking lot of the assisted living home, gathered my goodies, and headed inside.  Once in the reception area, I hear the faint sound of a TV in the adjoining gathering room and notice a nebulous odor that is indicative of elderly homes.  Why?  I've never understood why that can't be masked.  More candles, air fresheners... surely someone has tried.

 

I sign the guest book, noting my check-in time, then head in the direction of the TV and quiet conversations.  I hear very few voices, mostly from the gentle questions of caregivers to the residents.  My eyes search the room and then I see her.   She is one of the stronger, livelier ones.  She's straightening a tablecloth on a table (that doesn't need straightening) where she's been seated beside another woman sitting wrapped in a blanket with her eyes closed.  As I make my way closer, she turns slowly, carefully, and then she sees me.  Will she recognize me today?  A bright smile adorns her face and her arms stretch wide to welcome me.  We hug.  I kiss her on her soft cheek.  She squeals with joy at the sight of me -- and the Santa wreath I'm holding for her.  She comments lovingly about her Christmas surprise, and she shows the wreath to her friends nearby. 

"Look!  Isn't it darling!"  Some respond with an empty look in their eyes ... no one is home, sadly ... and others smile and oooh and ahhh.   Then she happily and proudly holds her wreath and urges me to follow her to her room.

 

We spent the next half hour in her small room.  She showed me her bed, her lamp, her blankets, her dresser, her little frig stocked with yogurt and fruit and juice ("...but I have no spoons!" ...), her tiny Christmas tree and manger scene by her bed, cards she'd received from friends, photos of her grandchildren and family, her laundry basket -- she pointed that out to me two or three times -- her private bathroom and shower liner. 

Taking delight in her opportunity for Show and Tell, with a smile of approval I responded, "How nice everything is....You've taken such good care of your room and it's just beautiful!  It's perfect."  She asked me to hang her wreath on the wall and then she opened her card.  When she saw the photo, she teared up. 

 

"Your mother would be so proud of all of you.  She can't be here this Christmas.  It's such a shame.  I miss her, and Mother too."

 

She glances at the photo again then she smiles once more, that familiar grin.  I've seen it before on my own mother's face.  Her sister has that same funny little grin when things amuse her.

 

I give her the tin of brownies.  "For me?  Ohhhhhhh-myyyyyy.  Oh!  They look so delicious!"  We talk and visit and laugh and remember.  I tell her funny and happy things.  I reassure her, comfort her.  I hold her hand and smile.  We talk about the weather.  We talk about her laundry basket.  A lot.  She reminds me again that she has no spoons to eat her yogurt and fruit.  She tells me at least three times.  I assure her that she'll have a spoon before I leave.  (I later learned from her daughter via a text to me that she has tons of spoons but she hides them and then forgets where they are.)

We reminisce.  We talk about the past and those who have gone before us. 

 

I glance up to see my mother's picture above her bed and I blink away the stabbing pain of longing in my heart, smiling instead -- for her sake -- and reminding her how much my mother loved her.

 

As I get up to leave, I hug and kiss her.  She thanks me over and over for the gifts, the brownies, for visiting and talking with her.  And, as if on cue, as I turn to leave she pleads with me ...

  

Come see me…