It seems to be almost a daily thing now, this discovering that her loved ones have died. Last week it was her husband she was looking for repeatedly; yesterday it was her mother. The scenarios vary from time to time but basically go something like this: she looks for the missing person, wonders where they are, and asks why they haven’t come home or called. In the case of her mother, she gets concerned and begins looking for her and questioning why she isn’t awake and stirring. Looking for Deogracias is different. She wonders where he is or why he isn’t in touch. Eventually her worry turns to anger and she starts to badmouth him about how he could at least have the courtesy to call her.
Depending on my mood and her mood, I handle the probing accordingly. “Where is your Dad, Karen?” she asked repeatedly throughout one morning. I played it by the book, not attempting to convince or argue a mute case, just going along with her thinking, as doctors and nurses have suggested. Somewhere along the line some professional thought this was the best approach and maybe it is. But around here, it only exasperates the problem. But I tried following the advice hoping it might work. I responded to her questions with,“Where do you think he is, Susan?” “I don’t know. He usually knocks on my door by now. Maybe he’s fishing.” She suggested. “Maybe he is,” I agreed because I like that idea. I wish he were fishing, my mind wandered. He loved to fish. If he were he would be home in a bit with a big catch
of mullet and we could have fish for dinner. It would be like the old days when he and Jeff would cast their nets as the sun came up and be home by late morning with a cooler full. I miss those days.
But he wasn’t fishing and Susan was getting angry. She resorted to badmouthing him for not being here. I didn’t want to hear her unkind words about Dad even more than I dreaded her sadness. Eventually I put a stop to the ugly reminders of the past by saying, “If he could be here- he would, but he died four years ago Mom!” “What?” she questioned, “When? How?”
Sometimes it seems that she already knows the truth but has just temporarily misplaced that memory. She often denies it and cries as if she really is learning it for the first time. One time in particular she couldn’t stop grieving and kept falling onto us crying. We felt sorry for her but had just helped her grieve the day before and the day before that. All we could do was to tell her things would be ok, that Deogracias had loved her and would be waiting for her in heaven.
Other times she is all business and wants to report his passing to the Navy, she asks how he died and where he is buried. I naturally want to come back with, “same place as yesterday Mom!” but instead I answer her questions because I know that this is real to her. Her brain has just learned that her husband has died (again) and that is sad.
This week she has been grieving her mother, who died of a stroke twelve years ago. She has searched every room of the house all hours of the day and night for “mother.” We called her Inang and I loved her too. When Susan hunts for her and swears she was just talking to her I wish it were true. But Inang has never been to Oklahoma; she was gone before we ever moved here. All of Susan’s searching has frustrated her and incidentally frustrated the rest of us as well. “Your mother has been dead for twelve years,” I eventually am forced to say, mater-of-fact. “No Karen, I am talking about my mother; you are talking about someone else!” She argues. She keeps looking and seems to especially think she might be hidden in the laundry room. Go figure.
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