Memory Care
by Jean Duffy

M om sang with the college glee club. Her fingers danced across the piano keys. She met her second husband in the church choir and fell madly in love. Musical notes always seemed to accompany her.

As a kid, I remember Mom playing a game where she would refuse to talk and would only sing. "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today." I rolled my eyes.

Years later my daughter scrounged for breakfast. I serenaded her: "Yes, we have no bananas." Now my daughter’s eyes rolled.

Mom’s songs permeated my own memories. I would hear a few notes and know every word, "Gonna take a sentimental journey..." My husband asked how I knew that song. It was one of Mom’s favorites.

Mom moved to a retirement community at age 72, an airy garden apartment in the independent resident section. Should she need it, assisted living, skilled nursing, and memory care were available. I felt relieved she was free of cutting grass and shoveling snow and could enjoy dining with companions and activities galore. She joined the chorus blending her voice with her fellow residents. Although I lived four states away, I marked my calendar and attended every concert I could.

Family members appreciated her annual calls with her operatic rendition of "Happy Birthday." Until Mom lost track of dates and stopped calling.

She eventually limited her driving to familiar places like church and the grocery store. One day the dentist called; she didn’t show up for her appointment. The community social worker suggested it was time to free Mom of driving responsibilities and her name went on the list for assisted living.

"This is the right place for me," Mom said, as my sister and I settled her into her new room with a sitting and sleeping area. Three meals a day. No more shopping or cooking. We sang: "Summertime, and the living is easy."

Another two years of cognitive decline and she could no longer keep up with the rehearsals of the resident singing group. She knew somehow it was time to let that go. Fortunately, the assisted living schedule included plenty of musical performances.

I sent Mom cards that recited silly song lyrics: “Skidamarink-a-dink-a-dink, skidamarink-a-doo, I love you.” When I visited, I found my cards unopened on her desk. We enjoyed them together.

The 2020 pandemic crashed down. Mom ate her meals alone at her desk. Perhaps accelerated by less socialization, her imagination started creating her own version of reality. During one phone call she told me she’d had a baby. Another time her mother was visiting. I appreciated she was reliving happy memories.

During one call my husband asked Mom if it was snowing. "Just a minute, let me check." I imagined her setting the phone down, walking across the room to the window, and humming "Let it snow." We waited on the line for five minutes, but she never returned.

We had family Zoom calls and her face lit up as she peered at the screen. I saw her in person only twice in twelve months. I treasured the outside visits from our separate park benches. We sang through our masks, patriotic songs like "Grand Old Flag" and show tunes like "Sunrise, Sunset." I held my breath and snuck a hug from behind before we said goodbye. Just that hug was worth the long drive.

Mom was now on the list for a move to memory care. Spring daffodils and vaccinations lifted my spirits. My sister and I swooped in for the stealth move. We packed up Mom’s belongings including her favorite song books. We decorated her new room with her pictures, a cheery comforter on her bed, and warm lighting. I had worried for weeks about move details of and how Mom would adjust.

Mom met us at the doorway of her new room. “Oh, these are my daughters,” she explained to the aide. "I haven’t seen them in months," the same words she had greeted us with the day before.

As we ushered her into her new space, she gushed with delight. "Oh, I haven’t seen these pictures since college! I love it." Apparently, I could have skipped the sleepless nights.

The next morning as I unpacked the final items in her room, the sound of piano music drew me down the hall. There was Mom sitting on the bench next to the piano player, belting out a solo of "Happy Days Are Here Again." I swallowed hard. You can't forget a love of music.

The piano player addressed the gathering: "This is your new neighbor, Mary." The crowd, mostly women, clapped.

Mom noticed me standing there: "That’s my daughter, Jean." More clapping. "I haven’t seen her in months!"

The piano player turned to me: "Did you know your mother can sing like that?" I just nodded.