May 17, 2020

Dear Mom,

This is Julie. 

I’m your daughter. 

I’m your oldest (that’s how you used to introduce me to the strangers at Kroger when I’d take you to the store to keep you safe from hitting someone with your car or safe from getting lost on the way home. 

I miss those trips to Kroger with the Beach Boys playing on Pandora Radio. We’d sing together songs you remembered long after you remembered why your car wasn’t in your garage. I’m the first one so I’m the one who made you a mom. 

And now you have no idea who I am or that you are even a mom at all. 

I miss you. 
You haven't remembered my name for almost a year, but I was a familiar face.
I loved how your face would light up when you saw me.

I worry about you. 

You didn’t want this dreaded disease, but we couldn’t stop it from taking you. 

You wanted us to promise when Grandma had it that we’d shoot you if you ever got it. You didn’t want us to suffer taking care of you. You didn’t want to suffer the way Grandma did. But we couldn’t shoot you. 

And now you sit. 

Alone.

In your room. 

In a wheelchair. 

I know you won’t understand this, but there’s a pandemic. A global virus. 

We moved you to Chesterwood Village so you and Dad could see each other every day. We moved you to separate apartments so you could have a break from his crap. Then the virus hit Ohio. 

I saw you on March 10. I had to sign in multiple times and assure them I didn’t have any symptoms of the virus, and hadn’t been out of the country. 

They closed Chesterwood Village to visitors the next day. 

A week later, they wouldn’t let Dad come see you. You were in separate zones and they needed to keep it that way in case the virus came to Chesterwood.

As of my writing this it hasn’t. The workers and families have kept you safe. Safe from COVID-19. 

But you had a wound. An open wound that needed antibiotics and a wound care nurse. 

Then you developed a UTI.

Then you were found on the floor, but appeared unhurt. If you were unhurt why can’t you put any weight on your left leg?  No one knows why so they sat you in a wheelchair.

They ran more tests and found the MRSA in your UTI. More antibiotics and isolation to keep the MRSA from spreading to others. 

This is not what you ever wanted,
to be alone in a room
in a wheelchair
unable to remember the ones who love you,
unable to remember you are a Mom. 

You loved to have us all together.
You loved being surrounded by your family.
You loved it so much that it was all you asked for your 70th birthday.
You wanted a family photo so everyone came to town to be together. 

You loved to have everyone home - your children and grandchildren, and oh how you loved your great grandson, Jonathan David. You talked about him to everyone you met. 

When you could still talk. 

When you could still remember. 

You have a great granddaughter, too, Mom. She will be one on Wednesday. She is so sweet. You’d love her to pieces.

If you could understand. 

If you weren’t alone.

In your room.

In a wheelchair. 

I miss you, Mom.

I love you.
I will remember for you, Mom.