Years ago, I had to take unconscious bias training at work. To my surprise, it indicated that I had an unconscious bias against the elderly. I thought this was nonsense - I had found the test confusing. But even supposing the test was accurate, I am now learning something new: the special joy of spending time with the very old. I apologise here for writing another blog post so soon about taking my mother out on a Wednesday, but these times are very special and I don't want them to be forgotten.
We have had days, weeks of rain this spring, and the weather has been very cold. Last Wednesday morning the temperature plummeted to near zero. Was it wise to take my mother out on such a day, I wondered. But in the end I decided yes, we could make it happen. I pack Vermont socks and two woolly hats for mum to choose between, and a scarf and gloves into my bag and head out into the cold.
She is quiet as we get into the car, wrapped in scarf and hat and gloves, and we are on the road before she says with a tone of reproach "you haven't asked me anything about the kidnapping" . "The kidnapping?" "Yes," she says "I was kidnapped last night".
"Ah", I say, slowly. There's always that heart beat of a moment where you have to choose your response. "But I just picked you up from Aroha. Are you telling me the kidnappers also brought you back?"
"Well, obviously", she says.
I push back a smile. "But kidnappers don't usually do that," I say carefully, "why would they do that?" [Bruce said afterwards when I told him about this conversation that he could think of a range of reasons why kidnappers might decide, on reflection, to return my mother.]
"Well," she says," they knew you were taking me out today and they were afraid of you. On account of your cousin being a cardinal." Then after a pause, "I didn't know you had a cousin who was a cardinal".
"Maybe that's because I don't have a cousin who was a cardinal!" I say, and then I start laughing and can't stop. "Why aren't you taking this more seriously?" she says, indignant now. "Because it was a dream!" I choke out, " a dream, mum!" and then she starts laughing. We laugh all the way to church.
"You know just the right things to cheer me up" she says as we unravel ourselves from the car. I get the walker out of the back and roll it up to the passenger seat. "Your chariot, ma'am" I say. "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home" sings my mother. "His chariots of wrath the deep thunder clouds form, and dark is his path on the wings of the storm" I sing. "You're so dramatic", she says, as she places Teddy carefully on the walker.
There are a lot of people at Mass, most of them elderly. My favourite priest is saying Mass - he's in his eighties too. I think of him as Father Chandler on account of his tendency to put stresses on the wrong words in a sentence (Lamb OF God, you take away the sins OF the world ...."). When it comes to communion, he steps forward to give communion to my mother and then pauses. He lays his hands on Teddy's head and makes the sign of the cross on him. "God bless you, Teddy," he says, and there is a murmur of laughter from the congregation. I glance back: everyone is smiling. After Mass, people hover around us, inviting us to stay for coffee. Mum doesn't even glance up. I murmur my thanks - they are kind people, they treat us gently.
On the way to Dad's, Mum says "I think you've changed recently". I think about all the change that has happened in my life in the last few months, leaving work, feeling displaced and full of grief and anger, uncertain of myself and my future. But also the strange wild joy of being in church. I wonder what she means and feel a moment's anxiety. "Is it good change or bad," I ask. "I'm not sure", she says. "I think you're more confident. But also more aware of people's suffering." This surprises me.
It's always lovely when we arrive at Dad's. She is full of joy. Dad is happy, welcoming, teasing her, making sure she's comfortable and sitting where she can look out at the garden. The next happy hour flies by. "Time to go," I say. "Oh wait", says Dad. He picks up something from the little table beside him and pulls himself to his feet, heading over to Mum. "I've got something for you," he says, "I've been cleaning out my wardrobe and found this little ring - do you remember, I gave this to you before we were married. Perhaps it can replace the wedding ring you lost.". He bends over her, almost as if, if he could, he'd be going down on one knee. "Jean Emerson," he says solemnly, "will you marry me?" and he slips the ring on her finger. "Wait!" says Mum, "I thought we were already married??" "Of course we are", he says, "I'm just an old romantic". She reaches up to stroke his face.
As I drive home, I grieve over her dream. Because of course she has been kidnapped, snatched out of her home, her life, denied the right to make the choices of how to spend her day. In the place where she's forced to live, she's often as angry, confused and distressed as any kidnap victim.
I've never doubted that we made the right call, never doubted that there was any other way to care for her. And I suppose, if I wanted to be clever, I could argue that dementia was the real kidnapper, the real villain who had robbed my mother of her freedom and the bright spark of her mind. Perhaps.
But on Wednesday mornings, faithfully and lovingly, her kidnapper takes her home.
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