Love in Her Voice

Paula, Phyllis and Carol

My mother, Paula, was one of thirteen children in her family. Yesterday we went to Sault Ste. Marie to visit her older sister, Phyllis, in Tendercare.  Phyllis just recently had another stroke.  We were warned before we went up to the Soo, about her being unable to talk or communicate with us.  We were also told she could possibly hear and understand when people visited and talked to her.

I never get use to the shock of seeing a family member or friend bed-ridden when they are ill.  How minimized, physically, they look after seeing them up and around and healthy before.  Their faces show the hollowness, the paleness of changing eating habits, loss of activity, medications and illness.  After the initial shock I focus my eyes beyond the physical.  It's the only way I'm able to give the soul inside the shell a chance to communicate.

Dwelling on the loss of facial definition, thinning hair and skin, blueish veins and wrinkles in the neck and hands, hollow deep-set eyes, protruding teeth, curling of the fingers and toes, bruising areas and unnatural angles of the neck and spine, destroys any chance of seeing the loved person inside.

There are other ways of "seeing" a friend or loved-one.  I focus on any response they give to my voice first.  Sometimes I'll see an eyebrow raise, the lips move to try to speak, or just notice if there is an increase rate in their breathing. I come close to them and speak slowly and gently giving more time in-between phrases for the person to have time to process my visit.  I touch their arm or feet to let them know I am close.  

Patients are use to a lot of external noises (either in a hospital or recovery setting) and I figure they've learned well to tune out anything beyond a foot away from their space. Staff talking, walking, shutting doors.  Patients wailing, talking, or moving around.  Custodians wheeling the tile cleaning machines up and down the halls. T.V.s blaring, telephones ringing, oxygen machines whirring, I.V. machines beeping.  Wind and rain whipping and pounding on the windows.  And sometimes the constant hum of the lights above their heads.   A low, but deafening sound in its own way.  

Mom knew instinctively how to communicate with her sister.  She got up close to her and talked sweetly and gently.  She didn't wait for responses.  She just talked to Phyllis.  Mom is not a person to chatter but she kept talking to Phyllis with love in her voice, letting her know she was there.  She allowed many spaces in-between her conversation to just be.  As Mom was holding Phyllis's hand,  Phyllis squeezed Mom's hand, never opening her eyes or speaking, to let her know she was listening. 

No flowers, cards, phone calls or presents could take the place of this simple touch.  I'm thankful for a mom who keeps teaching me.  

Mom, on Aran island of Inishmore, Ireland
Ready to release Dad's ashes into the sea.