Peanut Butter Sunday

I had grown accustomed to the scene. Mealtime. Wheel chairs in place. Vacant stares. I dreaded going but couldn’t stand the thought of Mother eating all her meals there on her own. Barely. Eating I mean. Getting the fork to her mouth had become a great struggle. And forget the soup. It utterly baffled me why the dietician did not provide finger food instead of relying on utensils that had long since lost their usefulness. The fingers still worked and were the preferred method for most of the residents. Politeness? Table manners? I understand wanting to hold on to every shred of dignity one can for the elderly and infirmed, but for some, including my mother, the coordination of getting the spoon up from the table, into the cup, scooping the liquid and then expecting that spoon to make it into the mouth with anything left in it was an unrealistic expectation. Her inability to accomplish this task concerned me because of its domino affect on her nutrition. So I showed up for meals most days. Good thing I did that Sunday. Mother had been placed at the special table with about eight other residents where extra staffing was available. The caregiver would circle the table and assist with each bite throughout the meal. This had been a relief to me. Help with meals. On this particular Sunday, I was late for lunch. I walked through the door and immediately noticed that mother looked strange. Her eyes were “popping” and she was slumped more than usual in her wheel chair. I looked down at her plate and saw part of a peanut butter sandwich. My mind began to race – peanut butter to a woman who can barely swallow? I looked at Mother. She was silently choking. And then, just as I had been taught to do with my toddlers, my finger formed into a hook and I whisked it into her mouth and throat. Out came an enormous, mushy glob of peanut butter and bread. The caregiver saw my alarm and joined me by slapping Mother’s back until she finally coughed up the remaining bites. In the circling, feeding routine, apparently the caregiver had forgotten to look to see whether my mother had actually swallowed the previous bites. Who knows how many times another piece of that sandwich had been shoved into her mouth? I held a glass of water to her lips so that she could sip. I hugged her and she whispered a very faint “thank you.” Flashes of lucidity would occasionally cause me to question the Alzheimer's diagnosis. I wheeled her from the table and took her into her room where I sat in her yellow armchair, holding her hand, looking deeply into her eyes, yearning for a conversation with my mother. And then, very, very slowly, Mother began to lean forward in her wheel chair. With each lean, I leaned closer to her – she kept leaning in, so I kept leaning in until we were practically nose to nose. And then, very gently, she kissed my lips. It was a little wet and very soft. The sweetest kiss I had ever felt. And I knew right then and there that she was saying goodbye to me. She died ten days later after taking to her bed. The peanut butter sandwich had been her last meal. And that kiss, was the last I ever received from my mother. But it lingers still.