2015-05/15
Lilacs were a favorite of my mother’s. I remember when I was growing up. She planted two small twigs in the ground. I remember thinking there was no way these would ever be lilacs, but they grew. Within a few years they became lush lilac bushes that would perfume the air each spring. I always loved looking at those blooms.
Many years later, after I had been out on my own for some time, my mother moved in with my stepdad. Not too long afterward, she decided to sell the house. She was not ready to lose her precious lilacs, though. She took them with her and replanted them at my stepdad’s house. They flourished there just as well as they had flourished at the old house.
I remember the look my mom would get looking at them, the sparkle in her eyes, the smile. She did so truly love lilacs.
It was May and May is lilac season. This year my mother would be in the nursing home and unable to appreciate those magical blooms, though. It broke my heart. I ended up sneaking to my stepdad’s now vacant house and snipping some of the lilac blooms as well as a few other blooms from the yard to bring to her. It made me smile just remembering how she loved them.
I planned on bringing them to her at the nursing home. She might not remember how much she loved them, but I did and that counted for something, right? I wanted to bring them to her, let her sniff their intoxicating scent, and maybe, even for a brief moment she might remember how much she loved them.
I brought them to her the next day. I’m not sure if she remembered or not. It was bittersweet. I vowed to myself if I ever have a home I would plant lilacs there in her memory. She is the reason those blooms in the spring always make me smile, so taken am I by the magic of their scent, of the delicate lilac petals. Their season is so quick, so fleeting, but there is something so special about that. I want to be able
to experience that each spring, want to tend to the lilac bushes throughout the year for the beauty of those lovely spring blossoms glistening in the sunshine.
We found a table a little out of the way so she wasn’t over-stimulated. She was a little confused because this was different than her normal schedule. I made it into a fun little adventure, though. I pointed out the green grass, some flowers nearby, the leaves in the trees. I pointed out the sun (even though she preferred the shade). She calmed down pretty soon and started to enjoy herself.
There was a new guy in the group of people my mother was hanging out with at the nursing home. I didn’t particularly like the guy. It felt like he had a thing for my mother. He appeared to be hitting on her on a regular and very blatant basis. My mother was oblivious to the whole thing. I was very leery and kept a real close eye on things when I was there. I brought it up to the activities guy and to the nursing staff. I felt it was only right to voice my concerns. I wanted my mother to stay safe and she was not of sound mind at this point. She had no idea this guy was making advances toward her. The staff assured me that it was fine. He was just overly friendly. They told me not to worry about it and promised that they would keep an eye on the situation when I was at work. 
I tried. I tried very hard to like the guy. I knew he also had brain issues. I tried to cut him some slack. I included him along with the others when I visited with my mom in the lounge area. I tried to make a point of conversing with him. He had gotten under my skin though and I couldn’t help my trepidation. I just did not trust the guy at all. Did I mention I was trying to keep an open mind? This went on for a while. He tried to cut in on my visits with her. He made me uncomfortable. He made passes at me. It was all just very wrong, but the staff was not handling him. It was not my place to do it. When I did chastise him it would elicit very negative responses and just make things worse. So I kept my mouth shut and observed. I was not happy at all.
My mom had made some friends at the nursing home. She always sat at the same table and the same people always sat with her. At this point she had decided I was her sister. In her mind she had never had children. The resident that originally she thought was my stepdad was now our father in her mind. She had started taking care of him. He was now going willingly and happily along with this delusion. I played along with it. What else could I do? 
I had fallen into a routine of working, visiting till dinnertime and weekends spending the whole day with her. I would bring coffee from Dunkin Donuts with me every time and she would love it. She hardly ever finished her coffee but the simple act of holding the cup in her hands, of knowing the cup was there, was a comfort to her.
I garnered my strength and somehow got on the road and drove out of town, on to a new life. I was not totally prepared for what awaited me. I moved all my boxes up the stairs, they were all loaded into the kitchen along with the small bit of furniture I had brought. Then it was time to see my new room. This was much more of a shock than I expected. The room was small, more of a hall than a room. The walls were painted dark gray, the room felt cold and lonely. It was more of a cave than a room and it felt like a cell. My full size futon would not fit the width of the room, so it was squeezed up on the edges. I didn’t know how I was going to do this, didn’t know how to go from a bright, sunny apartment on the ocean to a cold, dark, dreary room in the middle of the concrete and noise of the inner city.
I begged to paint the room. My life was already cold and dark enough at this point. I could not live in a room that mirrored that. Home needed to be a place for respite and rejuvenation, a place to heal and build my strength back up to deal with the day-to-day which was overwhelming at this point. I was grateful it was ok for me to paint because that room was SO depressing I couldn’t stand it. I wasted no time, folded up furniture that there was no space to move and I got to work. I needed to make this room mine and this darkness was the opposite of me. Thank goodness I could make that change because I feel if it was left this way I would have called down a dark abyss I might never have escaped.
I chose a very bright light sandy color that I hoped would make the space feel bigger and make it feel more relaxing and hopeful and less dreary and depressing. When the painting was done, I set things up a little differently and it felt much better than it did. It was still a tiny space but it felt much more livable than the cave it formerly was. 
When the futon was folded up there was space to walk and my mind had started to ease. My tension was starting to lift a bit and I was feeling better about this move. It was a huge change so stress was expected. I wasn’t used to all the constant noise outside. The traffic was never-ending, people talking loudly, yelling, honking, buses driving by, it was all sounds that I never heard in Rockport. I was hoping I would get used to it in time. The window was nice in the room and I think that helped it a lot. There was constant light coming through. 
When I came in to visit my mom I said hello and gave her a hug. She was always sitting at the table so I handed her a coffee as I sat down. She was lively and in conversation of sorts with the other residents at the table. She was talking to one of them and said, “You know my sister, right?” I looked at her, very confused, and she looked back at me and said, “Yes, this is my sister. This is Demi.” It took every ounce of my self control to hold back the tears. In a single instant my entire existence had been erased. 
