You Are My Sunshine

One of the saddest days I’ve experienced in recent years with my mom dealing with Alzheimer’s was last summer when she broke her hip and was not doing well at the rehabilitation facility.

I had made the decision to cut her rehab short and move her back to the memory care unit. Hospice could once again be involved in her daily care and she wouldn’t be subjected to the difficult rehab that wasn’t working for her. She was in pain and couldn’t walk, had lost so much weight in a very short period of time and we thought we were losing her.

So plans were quickly finalized and I told the hospice nurse that I would be in mom’s room when they got her ready to move. The aide and the driver from Parkside Village would arrive and take mom and her bags in the van and I would follow behind in my car.

On my way there I received a call from hospice telling me the driver and aide had gotten mom and were on their way back to the memory care unit.

That was a surprise as they weren’t scheduled to pick her up for another hour or so. But since I was nearly at the rehab facility, I said I’d just pop in and make sure they had gotten everything. I also wanted to thank the nursing staff for the care they had given us.

When I got to her room I discovered that nothing had been packed. It was an unexpected oversight, but I assumed our signals had somehow gotten crossed and perhaps they thought I was planning to do the packing.

So I went to work. When I finished, I went out to thank the nursing staff. The aide I especially liked – her name was Avis – gave me a big hug and wished us both well. As I tried to hold off more tears (I’m becoming such a big baby in my old age), I told her what a blessing she was to us and how much we appreciated her efforts.

When I turned to leave she said, “Wouldn’t you like to see your sweet mama?”

I am sure the look I gave her was of utter disbelief. “Hasn't mom left to go back to Parkside Village?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Your mom is in the TV room!”

So we walked to the TV room and a woman I didn’t even recognize was dozing in her wheelchair. Her bangs had grown out since she hadn’t had her hair cut since before her fall and she had two tiny little cornrow braids on either side of her head.

I smiled because I thought they were cute, but I laughed because I knew that mom would’ve hated her hair in braids.

My whole life I cannot remember mom doing anything to her hair other than the obligatory perm when she cared about that sort of thing. She never colored it. Her hair was always short, so she never wore it in a ponytail or a braid. And she never affixed a hair clip in her hair.

Mom's hair was not this big!

The only thing I can remember that was different about mom’s hair was a short period in the late 60s when she wore a wiglet. I don’t know why…maybe she wanted a little more of the bouffant hairstyle that was so popular back then and she didn’t have enough hair to achieve the look.

All I really remember was that it was gray (or “silver” as mom insisted we call the color of her hair). And to me that wiglet looked sort of like a dead squirrel in the little box she kept it in.

So I was a bit nonplussed by the cornrows, but I let it go. I figured someone was spending time with and caring about my mom.

We wheeled her back to her room just as the Joy, the aide and Johnny, the driver, came in to pick up mom.

Avis asked if she could sing her one final song before she left. Mom nodded – so Avis started crooning, “You Are My Sunshine.”

Johnny chimed in – and then mom tried to sing along, too.

I couldn’t have joined in if I tried.

I was standing behind mom’s chair, which turned out to be fortunate. Witnessing this moment of compassion between these caregivers just about broke me. I had tears streaming down my face – much as I do right now.

It was an incredibly poignant moment. Later, I wished I’d been able to capture it on video, though I don’t think I would have been capable of holding the camera at that moment.

But the memory will stay with me.

I know there are good caregivers and there are not so good caregivers out there.

That day I witnessed the very best.

So I’d just like to say thank you to all the people who care for someone else’s loved one. I, for one, am extraordinarily grateful.

And I thank you.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

                (Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell, 1939)