The Other Side of the Door

Imagine – for just a moment – you are sitting in a room. The rocking chair, ottoman and the blanket that covers you all seem somewhat familiar, but you don’t recognize the room itself. 

You are alone in the room and there is a door straight ahead, but you don’t know what’s on the other side of it.

So you stand up and walk slowly toward the door. You peek out. There are people outside in the hallway, but you don’t recognize anyone.

A woman with a nametag pinned to her tunic calls you “Anne,” so she clearly knows who you are, but you have no idea who she is.

She looks off down the hall and then turns back to you and says brightly, “You have a visitor!”

A moment later, a woman walks up to the doorway and with a big smile on her face says, “Hi mom!” so you greet her and call her by name. At least you recognize your daughter and remember her. When she hugs you, you hold on a little tighter because you’re so very confused.

She walks you into the room and settles you into a rocking chair that seems sort of familiar, but you’re not really sure where you are and how your daughter happens to be there.

Things are so muddled and you have many questions, but you’re her mother - the woman who has always been in charge – so you don’t want to admit that you don’t know what is happening or where you are.

Once you’re situated and she covers your knees with the blanket, she asks if you’d like a glass of wine. Oh! Something else familiar – and you know how to respond. So you teasingly reply, “need you ask?!” and give her a wry smile because no one in our family ever says no to happy hour.

When she hands you the glass of wine, you say, “merci beaucoup!” because somehow you recall a little bit of the French you learned in high school. Or maybe it was in college. Things are so confusing.  

After your daughter talks to you for a few minutes, she sees that you’re struggling with something. “What’s the matter, mom,” she asks.

You feel like something horrible must have happened to you because you can’t remember anything.

Something is very wrong. But how to begin?

So you say, “I don’t know, I’m feeling very confused. What am I doing?”

And then you look around the unfamiliar room and ask, “Where am I?”

She explains that you’re in a place called Parkside Village. That she and her husband Vince live only a few miles down the street. And that you’ve been here a little over 2-1/2 years.

You are astonished by this and are distressed that you have no recollection of the past 2-1/2 years. But then you ask your daughter the most important question on your mind.

“Where is dad?”

A despondent look crosses your daughter’s face and she tells you that dad passed away.  He fell and hit his head and later died of his injuries.  

You have no memory of your husband of many years – you really have no idea how many - passing away, but you feel like you can give a rational explanation by saying, “I must have repressed those memories.”

Only you can’t really recall the word “repressed” so you struggle for a moment. When your daughter helps you with the word, you nod gratefully.

Carrying on a conversation is very tiring.

And you’re very confused.

So you ask your daughter, “What do I do here?”

She teasingly says, “Well, mom, pretty soon you’re going to have to get into the kitchen and cook dinner for everyone!”

You know that’s not true so you say, “Oh, I don’t think so!” And she smiles and says, “You’re right. You’ve done enough cooking – it’s time someone else does it for you.”

And then she tells you that someone will come in to get you and take you to the dining room for dinner. And then they’ll help you get ready for bed.

You look over at the one bed in the room and ask her, “And where do you sleep?”

She explains where she lives, but you can’t retain the information.

She tells you that your other children will be visiting next month, so you look over at the clock that gives the day, date and time to orient yourself about when “next month” is.

She picks up a photo and shows you the last time your children visited, but you don’t remember it. You don’t say anything, though, because you don’t want your daughter to know you can’t remember anything.

As you finish the last of the wine and hand the glass to your daughter, you ask, “Where’s dad?”

You’re very confused. You don’t know where you are or why you’re there. Nothing is familiar. You recognize your daughter – thank God – but nothing else makes sense.

And then you turn to her and ask, “What’s on the other side of that door?”