My foster mom was put in a retirement home last week. She has Alzheimer’s.
The thing is she lived in her house for five straight decades. She doesn’t drive so that’s essentially 24/7 in the same environment for 50 years.
She raised five kids (and me) and provided daycare to countless families. Same place, same woman. Same woman, same place.
This summer as usual, I drove to go see her. She was beaming. Yes, after 25 minutes she started to ask me a couple things again, but otherwise she looked serene, at peace. In her own house, watching TV from a comfortable chair. Giving me compliments for my shoes and how I kind of have big feet (“you know what they say about men with big feet?”). Her light green eyes wide open.
We’re laughing. It’s just her and I. It is quiet and there’s a little summer breeze. I want to stay longer than an hour but I have to get back on the road. She stands up, uses her walker to get to the balcony to wave a goodbye while I honk and wave back, as we always always do.
I just didn’t know that it would be the last time. I remember thinking that it might be, got my tears up and then dismissed the idea “nah, there will be another one” to motivate me to dry up the eye water supply.
She fostered me. I have zero legal leverage to do anything. The house is scheduled to be sold next year and I don’t fucking want it to happen. There is just a lack of dignity in this whole affair. She is conscious that she can’t live alone anymore, but she’s also conscious that she doesn’t want to be in the retirement home and wants to be in her home.
I feel her. I hold onto my memories of taking her out to restaurants in the past few years. I was so happy to provide some sweet, short change to her routines. Stimulate her brain. Make her walk. Activities are essential when you’re in your 80s, even just for an afternoon or a couple days.
I’m still in denial, not going to lie.