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My mother always wore her sapphire earrings – a gift from my late father – every Sunday. As we approached the doors of the assisted living home, I noticed she had them on. An attempt at normalcy, perhaps, or maybe she forgot it wasn’t Sunday. Dementia had been chipping away at her memory, reshaping our relationship with each fleeting moment.
The weight of the moment felt like a weight on my chest. My mother, my soul for 50 years, was about to enter a new phase of her life, and I was the one delivering her to it, right after dropping my three children off at elementary school. And, right before going to work-related training.
She turned to me, her face a mix of confusion, anticipation, and fear. But, also it seemed that she was aware or her new reality. She gave a half-smile, which added to my guilt.
We made our way slowly to the entrance. The staff had been expecting us, and a friendly nurse named Daisy came out to greet us. Her warmth and kindness were evident, but my heart still ached. I couldn’t help but reminisce about the days when my mother was the one taking care of me, holding my hand on my first day of school, reassuring me on the “big, first days”. Now I’m walking her up to her “big, first day” and holding her hand.
Daisy showed us around. The place was filled with sunlight, which eased my nerves. Residents chatted in cozy corners, some watching TV, others reading, while another resident was out on a walk through the neighborhood with a caretaker. For a brief moment, I felt reassured. My mother might find her place here, surrounded by experienced staff who can provide 24/7 medical care for her in case of illness, discomfort, or pain management needs.
We settled Mom into her room, which already had some of her framed family photos, and even older ones in black and white, including photos of beloved pets. I am again surprised at how quickly time passes and also wondering where I myself will be living at age 85.
As the minutes turned to hours, the inevitable loomed large. I would have to leave her here, and the thought was overwhelming. We shared a cup of juice in the common area, and I tried my best to chat about mundane things like my new job, the grandkids, and my siblings, avoiding the goodbye that was approaching.
I hugged her tight, fighting back my own tears. “Of course, Mom. I’ll be back soon with the grandkids to visit, I promise.”
Walking away from her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every step felt surreal. I felt a storm of emotions – guilt for not being able to care for her myself, fear for how she’d adjust, sorrow for the tangible shift in our roles, and hope that she would find some semblance of happiness in her new home. But, then I had to collect myself and drive to work.
Over the next few days, the significance of that afternoon stuck in my mind. I replayed our final moments over and over, torturing myself with ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’. But as the days turned to weeks, and my visits to the facility became more frequent, I began to see the other side of the coin.
With each visit, I noticed little changes to Mom. The once overwhelming environment began to become familiar. I would find her laughing during exchanges or enjoying an old song during music therapy. The caretakers even had a company phone where they would text photos of her in pictures and smiling.
The decision to place my mother into an assisted living home was a tumultuous journey, loaded with guilt, sadness, and anxiety. But as I watched her successfully adapt to her new surroundings, I realized that sometimes love is about letting go. It’s about making difficult choices for the well-being of your loved ones, even if it temporarily breaks your heart.
And, yes, Sundays are still all about the sapphire earrings for her. They shimmer in the sunlight on her walks with me or her caretaker, reminding me of Dad and the bond we all share.
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