CELIA KRAMPIEN FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL
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Like a spotlight, the sunshine sweeps across the carpet searching for the red chair, the chair that had always been there, her knitting chair. Just two days earlier, Mom had explained to me how important that chair was to her. "Look, there is lots of room for my arms to move while I knit. I love this chair. Can I take it with me?"
The memory of this conversation will be imprinted in my mind forever. I also remember reassuring her that, yes, she would indeed be able to take her red knitting chair and anything else she wanted with her. She had looked back down and continued knitting another square with burgundy yarn and two different-coloured knitting needles while smiling, her fingers moving quickly.
In her house without her, I was filled with an overwhelming sadness, but I also felt happy and hopeful: a mixed bag of emotions churned inside me and I knew that it would continue to churn while I struggled with the question: Is this, was this, the right decision?
This Alzheimer's label that Mom had been given had changed all of our lives. For six years after the passing of our dad, we siblings had taken turns every day doing things for Mom that he'd been doing. We cooked her meals so she would never again forget to turn off the gas stove. We made sure she ate more than just dry Cheerios, the only thing she remembered she wanted. Hiding, and then dispensing, her medications so there would never again be an episode of taking one week's worth in a couple of days. Keeping a close eye on, or actually chasing away, door-to-door salesmen who would talk her into things she did not need. The constant worry and wondering if and where she would wander off when we were not there.
And now the time had come. I stood in Mom's house, watching the sunlight still search for that red knitting chair just as I was automatically doing; but now only the imprints of the chair's legs in the carpet remained. I was with my sisters, wrapped in Teresa's comforting arms, crying. Mary, with her tear-stained face, was next to us, while Ann (the strong one) was begging me not to hug her because she had just finished her own "moment." This was more difficult than any of us had ever imagined. Teresa then asked the question we were all thinking but didn't dare say aloud: "If this affects us so much, why are we doing it?" We all knew the answer: It was time. After months of worry, finding it difficult to keep mom safe, it had to be done. She needed more than we could possibly give. She needed a place with constant care. It was obvious she could no longer live alone.
Even if we did not want to face that fact, we all knew it deep down. We also knew that denial was not going to make this go away. It was the right decision. The guilt we were feeling and would probably always feel was part of it, but we knew this had to be all about Mom; we needed to keep her safe. I looked over to the shadows from the tree dancing on the carpet and noticed the sun had finally stopped searching for that red knitting chair.
We wiped away our tears, put on brave faces and jumped into our cars, Mary with Ann, while I hopped into Teresa's car as I knew I could not get behind the wheel. We drove over to Mom's new place. We walked into a beautiful bright room where she was lying on her own bed and the sunshine from the south danced on the carpet where the red knitting chair sat, just out of its reach. The sun was searching for what it knew was there, somewhere. I stared at Mom while holding in those churning feelings and my tears. Mom was smiling, lying back with her arms tucked behind her head.
If she noticed our puffy eyes she didn't say a word. She lay in her own bed surrounded by the things she loved. Dad's photos lined the wall. Her kitchen table, the one where she had always done her crosswords and eaten her breakfast, sat under the huge window.
Beyond, we could see a beautiful garden with trees, flowers and grapes hanging from the fence. That will be what she now sees when she wakes every morning.
Mom's laughter brought me back to where I needed to be, away from worry and doubt. Mary, with one of those corny family jokes that only we could understand, had brought laughter, bouncing off those cheery, pale-blue walls, the colour that Mom had picked for her new room.
Mom made her familiar comment, "You darn fool," and then tears from my laughter ran down my cheek. I could see the faces of Ann, Mary and Teresa and I knew they felt it, too. Yes, it was time, and we knew that no matter what may come, Mom was now safe and happy. I looked over to the red knitting chair where the sunlight lay comfortably on its arm. It had found what it had been searching for, and that was the moment I knew things were going to be okay. It was time.
Grace Vanderzande lives outside Napanee, Ont.