My Pal likes to remind me we have been pals since 1958 in Junior High. I watch her now while we cozily eat lunch at a restaurant she’s wanted to visit. We sit, us three: my pal, her mother and me. We are ‘treating’ Mom Peg to lunch out; a social time spent with loved ones away from her ‘home away from home,’ the nursing home. Mom Peg is 91 years old and confined to a wheelchair. She has a mind full of good memories and very good recall. The recall is not so good with recent memory, but we can talk about our childhood, and she always adds to those memories as if they happened yesterday.
As we sit now in the restaurant, my pal talks about our childhood; how the whistle blew from the nearby Agriculture Center where Mom Peg worked then. She tells how she would jump up from her homework and realize that she had not put the potatoes on for dinner as her mom asked her to do. Mom Peg laughs, and I tell how I would be at her house visiting my pal and Mom Peg would come in, sit down with us, and have a cup of coffee. Mom Peg adds something about my mother. I tell her my mom has been gone for quite a few years. Mom Peg says, without skipping a beat and me worried about how she will take such news, “You know, people tell me all the time that someone has gone and that I’ll see them again someday—but I want to see them now!” We chuckle and change the subject.
My Pal is the same good person she’s always been. She is especially good and true to her mother and family. For many years she has helped with the care of her mom in her own home until it became hard physically for her to lift and move her mom. She did her homework and had a good affordable day-care person for mom in her house. My Pal arranged the downstairs with a hospital bed and a TV; she even purchased a used van that could make it possible for the day care helper to transport her mom in the wheelchair and take her places. Sometimes we all get together to go out and play Bingo. Mom Peg loves Bingo. She is quite impressive with keeping up with Bingo calls, and if she wins, she always wants to dole out her winnings to all of us. We have a lot of fun with Mom, but I know it is an easier ‘fun’ for me, since I will go home at 4 pm and the rest will help get Mom home before the day care needs to leave. My Pal will then still need to fix dinner for four.
Several years ago, my Pal’s sister lost her husband. Her sister was only fifty-five years old when her husband died. There was no house left to her; her children were grown and had their own lives. My Pal and her husband made their home ‘big’ enough for Mom and now, her own sister too. When the homecare wasn’t there, this lovely, loving family took care of, cooked for, and watched game shows while eating meals, and laughing together with Mom. That’s not to say there weren’t scares in the night and a few emergency trips to the hospital for them with Mom. But a lot of that life style has changed recently.
My Pal tries now to spend several days a week at the nursing home. She laughs a lot at humorous things her mom does and sometimes weeps, too. I love to see my Pal laugh as she slides her hand over her mouth in secret apology, just as she has done since I’ve known her. She visits her Mom and fixes her hair, socializes with Mom Peg’s friends there. My Pal walks around and calls everyone by name. She appears very comfortable in her role.
I am the ghost. I follow around and chat with Mom Peg, but I always worry that I’ll mess up or miss something vital. I marvel at my Pal. She always seems so comfortable in new areas; always so brave and unafraid, even though she confides to me her hesitancy or her fears—she marches ahead. I know these are tributes to her parents’ raising of her. Things I envied and wonder about even now. I lost my parents in a tragic auto crash when they were in their early 60s. I watch my Pal and I truly wonder how I would fare if in her shoes. Yet part of me also feels cheated out of their moments of togetherness.
In the restaurant as we order lunch, my Pal goes over the menu with Mom. When the waitress brings my soup, Mom leans over to her daughter and asks “Where’s my soup?” My Pal tells her she didn’t order soup. Mom’s okay about it. Then my Pal decides to order soup, too. The waitress brings her soup and Mom says “Well where’s my soup?” The waitress hears Mom and says “Do you want me to bring you some soup?” Mom quickly ways “Yes!” We chuckle. During lunch we have good chatter and Mom adds some to the conversation, but mostly she concentrates on eating and enjoying her lunch. A few times she chokes, because her chewing is difficult and slow. My Pal leans over and, while making a sour face, she still lovingly wipes Mom’s chin and adjusts her bib. We discuss going to lunch again sometime and get ready to pay the check. My Pal meticulously goes over the check and makes sure her Mom’s portion comes out of a small folder of special money used for Mom’s care. We put some left-over goodies in a ‘doggy bag’ for Mom to take. While my Pal is in the ladies room, Mom Peg begins to open and inspect the leftovers. She says “Oh, what are these things?” I tell her she’s taking them home and she begins to eat a few as if she has never seen them before this moment. We all go outside to leave. I help my Pal get Mom up the ramp and into the van. Mom looks up at the restaurant next door and says “What I want to know is when we are going to that restaurant?” We answer “soon,” and I add “When you get paid, Mom Peg!” We all laugh.
As I head to my car, I really hate leaving my Pal to finish her day without me. I must go pick up my granddaughter. I want so much to call and check on my Pal, but that would be one more challenge for her to answer the phone while driving. She has enough on which to concentrate. I should know that as daunting a task as it seems, my Pal is doing everything she can to make the time she and her Mom have left together the best it can be. We know that this is part of how a family lives out their days. Mom Peg took care of them growing up and now the children take care of Mom growing older. It’s called life and it’s called love.
