Sacked

It is 4:15 p.m.  Dinnertime.  

The crowd roars on the TV in the living room area adjacent to the dining room.  The Steelers have scored in the 4th quarter.

The elderly gentleman at the end of my mother’s table stirs mashed potatoes into his juice. 

My mother is sitting on the cushioned seat at one of the rectangular tables on the memory care floor of the senior living facility.

Her seat is at an angle…. her head is tilted to the side… drooping, angling…

Her hair hangs in her face. Unkempt. Disheveled.

Out of bounds.

“Scooch your chair in so nobody trips when they walk behind you!” I remember her saying to me often. “Sit up at the table!”

She does not connect…to the chair: the chair does not connect to the table. The aides have forgotten to push her in.  They are too busy serving the other residents to notice. My mom has forgotten how to say something to them. 

Her chair remains at an angle, jutting out to the side.  Offsides. 

Her dinner is out of reach. She does not know this.  She does not notice. She is out of reach.

I can’t help but notice. I have not forgotten.  

I reach out to touch her hand.  She does not respond. She is out of touch.  She is almost out of time.

Slouching, slinking….away from the pureed chicken breast and fluorescent overhead lights…

Crumpling up and caving in…

to the back of the chair, her back curved over, her head slumping.  Bending until she breaks, except she is already broken.

Dried food has formed a crust on her favorite purple sweater.  It looks like it has been there a while, perhaps since lunch, casting a spiderweb on her chest.  Will it catch more food at dinner?

I set my purse down and pull up a chair.  “Always have Wet Ones in your purse in case you spill something on your shirt.”  Mom always carried a heavy leather shoulder bag everywhere she went.  Her sack. A treasure trove of Things You Might Need. Wet Ones. Leather gloves, even in April.  Travel size tissues with the sticker holding them together still intact. Pink CoverGirl lipstick. A miniature black umbrella that never opened up all the way. A tiny bottle of chewable aspirin. A ballpoint pen. A small black comb that she always used after she parked the car and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.  A leather wallet with a change purse section in case someone needed quarters for a pop machine.  An opened pack of DoubleMint gum with the pieces spewed all over the bottom of her purse, the silver wrappers peeled back at the edges. Ruined, but each of us would chew a piece in church anyway.

I notice a glance in my direction, a slight curve of her lips into a smile as I place the tip of the applesauce – filled spoon to her lips. Then the recognition ends.  Once again, the empty stare. False start. 

She eats half of the spoonful and shakes off the other half, causing her hair to swipe across the spoon, gathering up applesauce.  Fumble.

“Uh – oh, let’s clean you up!”  I say.  I am doing the mothering now.  I carry the sack.

I don’t have Wet Ones in my purse.  I use a napkin.

She doesn’t move her head as I smoothe the applesauce out of her hair and the remnants of lunch off of her sweater.  No response. She has been tackled.  She is down and she is not getting up.  A loss of ten.

I see a replay in my mind.  “Let’s put a gum band in your hair and pull it back before you put that Steeler hat on!”  she said as she reached into the depths of her purse and pulled out her black comb and a rubber band.  She quickly combed my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with such force that my eyebrows arched halfway up my forehead. Dad honked the horn in the driveway.  She placed the knit Steelers hat on my head.  “Now you’ll be able to see the game.  Have fun! Go Steelers!” she exhorted, smiling at me.  I smiled back and ran out the door.

Mom’s hair hangs in her face, tangled with ends made slimy from the applesauce. Her hair blocks her view as she leans farther forward.

After review, the call stands and the penalty remains.

I stay a little while longer.  I make a few more attempts to get her to eat something.

She won’t. She will not gain any ground.

In the background, a loud, raucous cheer emanates from the TV. A touchdown?  Maybe not, there is a flag on the play.  

I get up to leave.

I have nothing in the bottom of my purse to fix this.  Or to act as a salve.

A penalty call. Holding.  

Mom is asleep in her chair.

I push the button for the elevator to head home.  I hear a jingle for a commercial on the TV.  The game must be over.  I don’t know who won. 

I adjust the shoulder strap of my purse as I step onto the elevator. 

It is too late for a Hail Mary.