I’ve been hanging out at a senior care center in Idaho for the past two weeks helping my mom recover from knee replacement surgery. My primary job has been smuggling vanilla frappes into her room. So far, so good, though I can’t take all the credit for her progress — the center’s nurses are amazing, the meals are sumptuous, and there’s an onsite gym, activities room, and hair salon. It’s perfect in every way.
Except that it’s haunted.
Not by spiteful spirits, probably, but by the melancholy memories my mom and I brought with us. It wasn’t intentional, but we knew it’d be inevitable. Of the 35 possible rooms my mom could’ve gotten, she ended up two doors down from where my dad spent his final months of life. We brought him here after he fell and shattered a hip, then helplessly watched a series of unrelated health complications sluggishly defeat the strongest man we’d ever known. Though it’s been three years, I still catch glimpses of his old cowboy hat and hear his voice swirling in the shadows.
It’s unsettling, for sure, to revisit the center of profound grief. To intentionally walk through the entryway and across its tiled floors. To know what still dwells here. And what does not.
But my mom and I have both been very brave. We’ve talked about heartache and loss. We’ve questioned life’s fairness. We’ve lamented over my father’s death and our shared resentment for his absence. And we’ve held hands and helped each other step into the world past that monstrous old door.
Because that’s where the healing begins.
On Tuesday, we ventured over to the activities room to play bingo. On Wednesday, we made slime. On Thursday, my favorite day, we attended an ice-cream social.
And each day, my mom’s knee gets a little stronger, the shadows become less daunting, and the hallways swirl with something more hopeful.
The sound of our own laughter.
