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Her eyes light up, and for a second I think maybe it’s a lucid day. “Toby! I’m so glad you’re here.”
Disappointment is a crushing weight I don’t expect and don’t know how to handle. I plaster on what I hope is a semi-genuine smile. “It’s Miles, Mom.”
“Miles? Oh. Yes.” Her expression shifts, confusion pulling her brows together as she looks past me. “Why don’t you ever bring your brother along? Doesn’t he want to visit, too? How much longer am I going to have to stay here? Is that why he won’t visit? Because I’m here?”
I avoid the questions about my brother, because they tend to cause me more headaches and her more stress. Instead, I focus on the stuff I can answer. “We’re going to look at an apartment tonight, so hopefully you’ll like it there.”
“An apartment? But I have a house.”
I don’t understand how she can know she has a house but half the time thinks I’m my brother. I explain, like I do every time I see her, that the house is a lot to take care of, and that the apartment will have programs and activities and people to help manage.
“But I like my garden. And so does Prince Francis. How is my boy? I miss him. Will I be able to bring him with me?” She fiddles with the heart necklace she wears all the time. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my dad when our family was still intact.
“He’s good, Mom. I have a friend named Kitty who’s helping me take care of Prince Francis,” I remind her. Sometimes she remembers who Kitty is, and sometimes she doesn’t. Today it’s apparently the latter.
“A friend? Is she your girlfriend? Why don’t you bring her by, and we can have dinner together?” She threads her arm through mine. “Does Miles have a girlfriend yet? He was a bit of a late bloomer.”
I remind myself it’s not my mother’s fault that her brain is failing her and she forgets our conversation from a minute ago. Instead of correcting her, I roll with it. It’s easier for both of us this way, even if it makes me feel like shit. “Miles doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
My mother tsks. “He’s already thirty. What in the world is he waiting for?”
“Probably the right girl to come along.”
Once we’re signed out of the hospital, I help my mother into my car and make the short trip to Regency Village, the retirement complex with varying levels of care. It’s like a small, self-contained town with bungalow row houses for independent living. There are also four low-rise apartment buildings with increasing levels of care, including full-time nursing. My mother’s current situation requires daily monitoring and a support worker.
We’re greeted by a kind woman who looks to be in her early forties. She gives us a tour of the facilities, and then we’re shown an apartment like the one my mother will have if we decide this is the right fit.
“There’s only one bedroom. Where will you sleep, Toby?” My mother looks up at me, her expression reflecting her concern.
She’s only in her mid-sixties. How could this be happening? The more time I spend with her, the guiltier I feel for not seeing this sooner.
“I have my own place in the city, Mom.”
“Oh. Hmm. Do you work in the city?” she asks for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah. I’m a data analyst for the NHL.”
“Oh. That’s good. I always knew you’d do great things.” She pats my hand and wanders around the apartment. She opens the fridge door and frowns. “I need to go grocery shopping. There’s nothing to eat. I wanted to make you a sandwich.”
Any small remaining hope I had that maybe she could handle living on her own disappears. And so does the hope that she isn’t going to need as much support as the hospital staff warned. “You’re not at home, Mom. We’re here looking at an apartment.” Every day feels like Groundhog Day. I can’t imagine what this must be like for her. It would be terrifying to lose who you are most of the time. To not know where you are or why.
The receptionist gives me a sympathetic smile. “Would you like a minute?”
“Please.” This is hard enough without an audience, and the emotions are clawing at me, making it even more challenging.
My mom wrings her hands. “Why can’t I just go back to my house? I don’t understand why we’re looking at apartments when I have a place to live already.”
I go with blunt honesty, which is probably the worst thing I can do under the circumstances, but my frustration wins out over my empathy. “Because you were wandering around the street in your pajamas, and you didn’t know where you were.”
She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “What a horrible thing to make up, Toby. I would never leave the house in my pajamas!”
