Visitations

A piece of my heart lives in a building — broken into fragments

Occasionally I visit; when the guilt overpowers the avoidance

The pieces have long since altered themselves; no longer able to form a whole

And I no longer feel the need to:

Reshape.

Reform.

Mend.

Rebuild.

I resign myself to the memories, reflected off the shards, of the love that once pulsed

A piece of my heart lives in a building — waiting to be released

It was a hot day in February; the day I dropped you off. You were blissfully unaware of the harrowing decisions I made that led us to this moment. I can recall the day it was decided to move you out of your house and fortunately, you acquiesced without complaint. By then, you were no longer you; slowly succumbing to the demands of a hijacked mind. Prematurely, I was forced into filling a role and occupying a space in which I had no compass to aid in my navigation. How could I ever think I would need such an instrument when you had always been that for me; my true north.

As you walked away on steady feet with the aid of your walker, I could only smile and wave; small actions that required minimal effort. My heart was breaking.

I did not speak for fear of hearing my voice crack and not trusting that my body would follow suit: to crumble, to fold over, to fall, to break. But off you went with a nurse into your new home, your new life. You held conversation as I would expect from my social butterfly; my mariposa. As soon as you were out of sight, I nearly ran to my car and allowed myself to fall apart. I drove away feeling a plethora of emotions: relief, sadness, helplessness, failure, and guilt (the never-ending guilt, my new constant companion). Eventually I would return to visit, but instead of viewing it just as a new home for you I also viewed it as the antechamber to your final destination; a finality of sorts.

As I arrived home, I envisioned you walking into your room and seeing all your family pictures hung up on the walls. I hoped that you would at least feel a small semblance of home. Although, I am aware that the tangled webs in your mind had long since changed your perception of home; even when you were there, you weren’t. The timeline of your life including its memories were disjointed.

I chose one of the rooms that looked onto the lake nearby and made sure that you were a solo occupant. That was the only promise you had me make: “I don’t want to live with anyone. I want a room by myself” you requested of me one day. Those few lucid moments that you had, I held onto resolutely since they were the last words of a free a woman; it is difficult to be free when your mind becomes its own prison.

In order for you to acclimate to your new environment, I was unable to visit you for some time. Once the visitations were allowed, we were limited in time and location.

I visited you every week; it was usually a Friday due to work responsibilities. I got to know the staff well, tidied up your room, made sure your hygiene was kept up, and at the end of every visit I told you “I love you” and you would always respond with “…and I adore you”. In those early days, your eyes would meet me with recognition and the love I was so familiar with, like a common a route you take every day without thinking, but innately know. We would exchange our “I love yous” and “…and I adore yous”; it became our valediction.

And then time slowly got away from me and life unfolded itself with the birth of a child, challenges of a marriage, and the beginnings of a new career. In truth, I became a spent woman by depleting myself for the sake of my devotions.

In what I can only describe as retaliation for my absence, time’s passing began to show more and more of your mind’s erosion. I reminded myself of this inevitability, but my long-standing companion, guilt, enjoyed watering the taproot of my insecurities and imbedding itself at the center of it all. I allowed myself to settle in perpetual thoughts of my blameworthiness (a habit that I have since broken).

It has been almost 3 years since moving into your new home and you no longer recognize me. As though we are strangers at an airport, passing each other by and never acknowledging the remnants of the two lives that were once intertwined. I look into your brown eyes—my son’s eyes-- and see a labyrinth of broken passageways. When I visit you now, I find no consolation in your body still being here. It does not bring me peace, but a longing for the potentiality of a life that never happened or moments that never came to pass.

Our visits are comprised of making your comfort the sole priority, until that day comes when your mind is no longer held in its involuntary confinement.On that day, we shall celebrate a life well lived and multiply the love released by a rested soul.

I now feel obligated to nurture the memories of the love you gave, the love you received, and the love that remains. All those who knew you are walking testimonials of the extraordinary woman you were; an anthology of your experiences in third person.

These visits, although painful, were also filled with joyful moments: birthday celebrations, restaurant outings, family reunions, and coffee breaks.There is no doubt that love was in attendance; love became a light with its ability to spread, bend, and pass through the broken parts of us. It slowly settled to comfort, soothe, and salvage what was left.

We will meet again, Mom, and when that day comes perhaps our conversation will play out differently as things often do. You will say “I adore you” and I will say “…and I love you”.