730 Days

"But what minutes! Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day." (Benjamin Disraeli)

Meaning no disrespect to Mr. Disraeli, my calendar forces me to remember that two years have passed since Mother walked through the doors of the nursing home. Is it possible? 730 days. They came and went without permission; time "truly seems to be the lone thief unchecked by any law." (Napolean I)

Memories come to me, not as streaming videos, but in the form of frozen images ~ like photographs suspended in time. We have all been fortunate to spend considerable time these past two years accumulating cherished images of Mom that may serve to carry us through the difficult days ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Time alone with Mother is often hard to come by. Invariably, other family members, friends and nursing staff shuffle in and out of her room making demands, small and large, of her time. Every so often the stars seem to align, however, placing each of us in that proverbial “right place and time,” granting an opportunity to be alone with Mom while she is alert and conversant.

One night will probably always stand out for me.

My family had accepted the invitation to eat dinner with our cousins; while I enjoy a good “Taco Tuesday” as much as the next guy, for some inexplicable reason I chose to stay behind with Mom. I will always be happy I did.

After we finished dinner in her room, Mom began a familiar slow boil towards agitation. She wanted her family at her side and, if that didn’t materialize soon, she was sure to voice a well-worn demand for me to immediately take her home. Ultimately, I convinced her not to consider such a move until her other children returned from dinner. In exchange for her cooperation, Mom made but two demands: (1.) Ice Cream, and (2.) Michael Buble’s “new music” had to go.

The iPod was then set to play Barber’s, “Adagio for Strings.”

In an instant, her entire mood changed.

Gone was any sign of agitation or assured talk of walking the hallways to the front door and beyond. Instead, she seemed to settle into the comfort of the bed and began quietly working her tiny hands through processes she had repeated a thousand times over in her former life; without recipe, visible spices or pans, Mom was again cooking dinner for her children who would soon be coming home.

Her hands are much smaller than I remember; while this could be a failure of my memory it is more than likely a physical wasting wrought by time and disease. Regardless, there remains a beauty, strength and fluidity in her movements. As she continued to reach effortlessly into cabinets from some distant past, I am confident she knew exactly where everything was supposed to be. This was ballet.

She was also in the mood to talk.

I am not altogether sure Mom’s eyesight isn’t failing. But she sees plenty. Even if only viewing the memories of her mind’s eye, Mom seems to create threads of conversation based on what she sees and these images apparently drive her thoughts. One need also understand that moments of cogent thought come in waves for Mom, most often mingled with random meanderings. Some days are certainly better than others; these two hours of conversation alone with Mom reduced me to tears more than once.

~~~~~~~~~~

She spoke of the many people who are coming her way. She was concerned she might not be able to, “feed and clothe all of them.” When I asked if she knew why they are coming, she replied with a simple, “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

As she continued cooking, she noticed that in the midst of the group she could make out the image of her beloved father and, presumably, a dog named “Zippy.” When I asked what her father was doing, she told me that, “he is moving slowly.” While she was genuinely excited about seeing her “Daddy,” there also seemed to be some reticence in her reply.

~~~~~~~~~~

When she eventually spoke of my sister, Mom’s face was suddenly relieved of all tension as she smiled a well known smile. Turning her head to me, she then locked her eyes and soul with mine for the first time that evening while stating unequivocally, “I never knew anything about love until my girl came into my life.” “My Jeannie. My beautiful little girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Thoughts eventually turned again to her father. Only this time she decided to write him a letter; she insisted I find some paper and a pen. Mom hadn’t written her famous daily lists in more than a year, but she took the pad and pen and held them both in her familiar left-handed manner developed over a lifetime. In the end, only the word “Dad” was legible among random threads of scribble, but even that single word resembled nothing of her familiar script. When I asked what she had written, she said, “Daddy. Walk slowly ... I’m not ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Will you set me free?” She said it over and over again. Cupping her small right hand to my face, she again engaged my eyes and implored me to set her free. I don’t know what she meant. She has so long begged to go home but home may now hold a very different place in her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I want all of my boys to lift me and carry me home.”

~~~~~~~~~~

My family eventually returned to the nursing home with the ice cream that had been part of our original bargain. As they each settled in alongside Mother’s bed to eat their sundaes, there was nothing I could do but leave the room. The emotions of the evening had run strong; I was spent.

The last thing she had told me before they entered the room took me to an entirely different place:

“When Daddy comes for me, I want to walk through a field of petunias until I reach the edge. And when we get there, I want to return to the center of the field.”

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at me, again, before answering,

“I will be home.”

Last Dance

I looked at Paul as he went through the motions of the morning and couldn't help wonder what he was thinking. There is no way I can yet understand how he felt.

~~~~~~~~~~

Imagine...

... a progressive disease has robbed you of the very essence of your being. Indeed, every semblance of the life you now enjoy ~ not to mention, the dreams envisioned for your "golden years" ~ have been quashed. Instead of trips planned to visit family and friends, foreign principalities or even a local grocery store, you one day find yourself in a strange, if not, foreboding place. Adding one last insult to injury, you are confined to a wheelchair, robbed of what may well have been the last vestige of any control over your life.

Where are you?

The place into which you have landed is foreign, yet somehow familiar. There is some vague similarity to the sights, smells and pace of hospitals previously visited but there also remains something that is simply ... different.

You soon realize the place is devoid of the normal, comfortable sounds of home ~ no children laughing and squealing while at play, no dogs barking, no water boiling over a stove, no televised football, no music, and not even the curiously familiar sounds of a furnace or dishwasher at work.

Yet, there is a cacophony that percolates through every corridor of the place; it also seems it will never stop.

Call lights blink and "buzz," aides noisily transport metal carts heavy with the smell of food along uncarpeted halls; invisible, unanswerable telephones ring; televisions blare uncontrollably; and, sundry voices ~ not family ~ cry for attention.

"No," you are certain, "this most definitely doesn't feel like home."

Given enough time, you will awaken to a dawning realization the life you once cherished is past.

And, true to the unsettling promise of Thomas Wolf, you eventually understand, "you can't go home again."

~~~~~~~~~~

Mother made this same unhappy transition to a new life within a nursing home two years ago, July 7. Oddly, the intervening years since that somber summer day passed with the "blink of an eye" while also managing to feel like an eternity. I recently came across photographs taken when she first arrived, and found myself shocked by the change that has been visited upon Mother since arriving at GVM. The woman who spends most of her days confined to a bed in Room 807 bears little resemblance to our Mother who, some seven hundred days ago, walked into the nursing home on her own steam. Now confined to a wheel chair, Mother will surely never walk ~ or dance ~ again.

~~~~~~~~~~

One December weekend, I made a decision to bring my portable Bose stereo system to the nursing home. My initial intent was to provide an alternative diversion for Mother who spends most days bored within the isolation of her room. At noon, as a private duty aide arrived to sit with Mom for a few hours, I packed up my "music" and headed for the front door. Having befriended many residents over time, however, I stopped by the dining hall to greet a few friends and fetch coffee. I was almost immediately struck by the din within the dining room; hearing only the sounds of low murmurs as well as the metallic clank of silverware on china, the dining room ~ in the midst of a holiday season ~ was nothing short of oppressive. Not needing permission, I unpacked the Bose, started my iPod and activated a playlist of holiday music.

The effect was nearly instantaneous.

The pall over the room lifted. Most smiled. Many began moving their feet uncontrollably. Some laughed as others cried. And, while a few residents eventually began to sing, others raised their hands overhead in rhythm to the music...

... and one...

Lena, at 95, had been living in the nursing home for many years. Most days it was hard to get even a single syllable response out of her; while she was most always attentive to welcoming "hellos," she rarely offered much in return. Her beloved son, Paul, who had been attending to her daily concerns for years, was understandably one of the few people with whom she would routinely interact but now those moments were becoming rarer with time.

Until that December afternoon...

Lena clearly discovered a wellspring of renewed life within the music that afternoon. This seems to be what happens with most people when exposed to music they truly love. If a person happens onto the classical music listened to by the parents of their youth, the popular music of a bygone era, or even a particularly sentimental favorite holiday song ~ if it was embraced by a person long ago, she will most certainly welcome it with renewed fervor on hearing it again.

Listening to the music that day, Lena's entire countenance suddenly changed. She sat up in her chair, lifted her head, smiled beautifully at Paul and then ~ unexpectedly ~ held out a tiny hand to him. Paul instinctively understood ~ it was not simply a gesture but a request.

Taking a firm hold of Lena's weakened hands, Paul gingerly lifted his frail Mother from the cuirass of her wheelchair,

and then ... they danced.

Over the next few minutes, the entire dining hall was transfixed by what they saw; other family members, residents, and staff watched, applauded and cheered as Paul took the opportunity to share a December dance with his Mother ~ temporarily awakened from a slumber by the effects of the God given wonder that is music.

~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday, at the base of a gently sloping hillside, Lena was laid to rest, her grave adorned with dozens of pink and white roses.

I looked at Paul as he went through the motions of the morning and couldn’t help wonder what he was thinking. There is no way I can yet understand how he felt.

At the conclusion of the service, Paul, eyes brimming with tears, came to thank me for attending the commemoration of Lena’s life.

And as he walked away, Paul suddenly stopped, turned again to me, and smiled a knowing smile. Since that December afternoon so long ago, he has never failed to remind me of the “last dance” shared with his Mother. It was a moment none present will soon forget ~ nor was it a dance family members will ever have an opportunity to share with our own Mother.

Lena and Paul danced for all of us that day.

I understood the gratitude behind the smile on his face yesterday; he need not have spoken another word.

Room 806

It is an iconic memory from my youth.

Walking outside, I was met by a beautifully bright, cool Spring morning, the air cleansed with the freshness of an overnight rain. I found Mother exactly as I had expected; kneeling on the ground, quietly working one of her many gardens.

As I began to speak, Mother looked up and, putting a finger to her mouth, silently encouraged me to take time to listen to a dove as it cooed.

After a moment, Mother smiled and, as if sharing a confidence, revealed she liked to mark her calendar every year with the date she first heard the call of a dove.

By a turn of good fortune, I had come upon Mother at the exact moment she celebrated an annual, sacred moment; this is when I learned of the special communion she shared with her “crocus birds” ~ the doves, her birds of early Spring.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When the gentle cooing of a mourning dove from a bird clock hanging on the wall in Room 806 sounded for the second time last Friday, another child was also fortunate to be at her mother’s side ~ this time, as the woman took a final breath.

“If only I had wings like a dove that I might fly away and find rest.” ~ Psalm 55:6

Being a devoutly religious woman, I can’t help believe Mabel would have found significance in the call of a mourning dove at the very moment of her death ~ that such symbolism had been placed in her family’s path to convey a message upon which they could focus in the hours, days and weeks to come.

Mabel would probably want them to look upon the dove as a potent reminder of the importance of peace in their lives. She would want them to share in her own belief that peace, as symbolized by the dove, will not only work to quiet their troubled minds but will also allow them to find renewal in the silence. And through the stillness inherent to silence, she would want them to fully appreciate the simple blessing and importance of a life well-lived.

It should also be noted that at the moment of Mabel’s death, after the dove had finished its mournful lament, the bird clock stopped working altogether.

The significance seems profound:

Just as I had been fortunate to share a special moment with Mother and her “crocus birds” many years ago at the advent of Spring, Mabel’s daughter was truly blessed to be at her Mother’s side as the dove cooed, witness to the most sacred moment of Mabel’s life as she moved on to another existence that will have her knowing nothing of the boundaries of time.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘She is dead.’
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our working week and Sunday rest,
Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;
We thought that love could last forever; we were wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

From W.H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues”

JEM and Mabel; Christmas 2008 GVM

Max's Wishes

I, Max, carrying the burden of secret years of life, aware of infirmities heavy on me and realizing the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my Last Will and Testament. My family will not learn of it until after I am gone; remembering me in their loneliness, they will suddenly become aware of this Testament, and I ask them to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have nothing in the way of material things to leave; dogs seem wiser than men – we aren’t in the habit of putting great stock in stuff. Dogs don’t waste our days hoarding property (except Teddy Grahams), nor do we ruin our sleep worrying about how to keep the objects we have or how to obtain the objects we have not. The only possession of real value I have to bequeath is my love and faith; these I leave to everyone who came to love me these past five years – to my family, and Mom and Dad, in particular, who will surely mourn me most.

Perhaps it might be vain for me to boast – especially given I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust – but, I always had it within me to be an extremely lovable dog.

I do ask my family to always remember me but also not to grieve for me too long. These past five years, I worked to be a comfort to them in times of sorrow as well as a source of added joy in their happiness. It hurts me to think that I should cause them pain, even in death; they need to remember that, owing only to their love and care, I had finally been allowed to live the fullest of lives.

I realize it will not be considered as “fair” my decision to offer only silent goodbyes before I become too much a burden on myself and to those who love me. They need to know it will be my great sorrow to leave them, but will also not be my sorrow to die. I do not fear death as do men; dogs accept death as a part of life, not as something alien and terrible.

What will come after my death, I do not know. I would like to imagine there is truly a paradise where I will always be young; where each hour will be mealtime; where my “Dad” will share long walks along beautiful winding roads, a million fireflies illuminating our way; where I curl up alongside “Mom” on a couch absorbing each other’s warmth, nodding off and dreaming, remembering the best of days on Earth as well as the love of a Family finally realized.

It is my firm belief that peace will be a certainty; peace and long rest will finally come to my weary heart, head and limbs, as well as the promise of an eternal sleep in the earth I loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.

My last request will be to ask Mom and Dad, out of love for me, to adopt another dog; it would be a poor tribute to my memory never to again love another dog. While it might seem I have a jealous spirit, I have always believed most dogs are essentially good. (Clearly, some dogs are better than others – Shelties, in particular.) So, I suggest a Sheltie as my successor. While it is hardly possible she will be as well bred, as distinguished, or as handsome as I was in my youth, I ask Mom and Dad not to “expect the impossible.”

She will do her best, I am sure; her inevitable and manifest deficiencies will only help, by comparison, to keep my memory alive.

To my replacement, I bequeath my collar and leash; while she will never wear them with distinction as did I – all eyes fixed on me in admiration – I wish her all happiness and joy as she comes to live in that wonderful place called, “home.”

One last word of farewell to my family – especially, Mom and Dad: when visiting my grave, while you may justifiably entertain a momentary reflection of regret, I mainly want you to cherish the certain memory of the great happiness you brought to the final five years of my life.

"Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved".

Think or speak those words.

No matter how deep my sleep, I will hear you.

For, not even the finality of death will keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail and barking with joy for all the angels and neighbors to hear.

Max - April 12, 2010

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

Robinson Jeffers, 1941

Popcorn Sky

“How are you doing, Mom?”

Slowly turning her head, she stared vacantly in my direction as though seeing me for the first time; confident in the belief that no son of hers would have ever asked such an inane question, she, nonetheless, offered an extremely sane reply,

“I am going crazy! That’s what I am doing! All I do – ALL day – is lie here staring at this ridiculous ‘popcorn sky!’”

2008

Arriving at the nursing home in the summer of 2008, some were convinced Mom wouldn’t live to celebrate Thanksgiving – let alone Christmas. The statistics were certainly not in her favor; number crunchers in lonely cubicles had coldly calculated a life expectancy of between “six to nine months” for nursing home residents in the final stages of neuromuscular disorders.

By October, hospitalized for the third time in a month, two neurologists spent perhaps fifteen minutes – collectively – making separate evaluations before brashly pronouncing she was in the final stage of her Parkinson’s disease and would not live to see another Spring. (“Sorry, thank you, here’s my bill, goodbye.”)

As if slapped, we had been assured – in unambiguous terms – Mother’s clock was rapidly winding down.

On her discharge back to the nursing home, no time was wasted; Hospice was initiated immediately.

I fast became a living, breathing contradiction: I absolutely wanted Mother’s suffering to come to an end, but would have gladly admitted I didn’t care at all for the prospect of losing her in the bargain. Given time, however, I drank the “kool-aid” becoming convinced that once the chain of events with Hospice was set in motion, Mother would be transported on a conveyor belt toward certain demise.

Our death watch began.

Halloween gave way to November. Days slowly became weeks and, miraculously, Mom seemed to thrive as we eventually managed to celebrate the holiday season that culminated with the arrival of a New Year. Mom was fighting and I allowed myself to hope.

January 2009, however, dealt Mother a severe blow.

A particularly vicious bug made the rounds at the nursing home and didn’t stop at Mother’s door; bedridden for nearly three months, she valiantly fought a respiratory infection that had succeeded in taking the lives of more than a few residents.

By mid-February, a hospice nurse abruptly declared Mother would live no more than two weeks; touting a “95%” accuracy with similar pronouncements in the past, she made a request that all medications be halted and palliative care initiated.

This “nurse” and others had apparently failed to factor Mother’s dogged determination and resolve into their equations.

Thankfully, the grossly inappropriate and premature directives were not carried out by her physician of record; more than a year later, Mother is still very much alive.

But, she is certainly not the same.

Weeks confined to bed recovering from the infection had left her extremely debilitated. Her right foot had become permanently plantar flexed and was beyond the scope of physical therapy. So, in the span of three months, her life was dramatically transformed; no longer able to run the halls of the nursing home trying to find her way “home,” Mother had become effectively bedridden.

October 2009

“I am going crazy! That’s what I am doing! All I do – ALL day – is lie here staring at this ridiculous ‘popcorn sky!’”

Looking up, I immediately understood. Every minute of every wakeful hour of every day confined to that damned bed, Mom had no choice but to stare at the blank canvas of her textured ceiling that had – over a period of several months – become her entire world view. Who wouldn’t go stark raving mad?!

With a wheelchair now her only means of mobility, we took Mother outside later that morning hoping she could enjoy the beautiful fall day. The leaves had reached the peak of color with their resplendent shades of red, orange and yellow; it was the season at its visual best.

With Mom’s frustrating admission still fresh in my mind, it suddenly dawned on me that Nature had provided a possible solution. Gathering up a few handfuls of the brightest, most colorful leaves, I returned to her room. Standing on her bed, I then taped an assortment of the leaves to her barren ceiling, hoping beyond hope the small change would somehow help to break up the monotony of her days.

It worked.

While the change in her affect once she noticed the leaves on the ceiling was not dramatic, at a minimum, she certainly became engaged with “her leaves.” She might speak one moment of the need to “rake the leaves,” then immediately order us to “leave them alone!” She described them in detail to aides, and even counted them for me on occasion.

It amazed and pleased me that a ridiculously simple idea could have affected a difference for Mother as she spent hours alone in silent contemplation of the leaves; most poignant for me, was when she would lie completely still in her bed, smiling and staring endlessly up at her colorful Popcorn Sky.

Emboldened by this minor success in the Fall, December ushered in the anticipation of yet another Christmas season and an even greater transformation of her ceiling for the holidays. A nursing student, Tracy, and I spent a Saturday morning listening to holiday music while hanging a colorful assortment of ornaments throughout Mom’s field of vision; a woolen Santa and Snowman, mittens, snowflakes, and shiny, colorful balls were suspended at various levels about her bed.

It was pure fantasy and she loved it.

April 2010

Winter finally seems to be giving way to a much anticipated Spring.

In the coming days, the snowflakes and snowman will come down from that ceiling to be replaced by suspended mobiles of pictures from her own gardens as well as much loved Sunflowers.

While Mother had to long ago give up working in the gardens that represented her lifelong passion for toiling the good earth, we are determined to force a Spring of our choosing – once again bringing her beloved flowers within arms reach, suspended from the Popcorn Sky.

Postscript: The Girls From Table 5

The Girls From Table 5

I hated the table from the start.

Any other dining room arrangement would have been more appropriate to satisfy Mother’s needs as well as my own. She had been assigned to the smallest of tables in a corner of the dining room seemingly away from any semblance of friendly interaction and conversation. I immediately spied another table of women who genuinely appeared to enjoy each other’s company and quickly recommended the change. But it was not to be.

Mom was stuck in her place at the proverbial children’s table with a couple of cantankerous looking old women. I was not hopeful.

Thankfully, time and experience teaches most of us that initial impressions rarely ring true; the girls from Table 5 would eventually win our hearts.

There was Lola, the pill-hoarding, wardrobe/manners Nazi, whose idea of discretion was to hold a cupped hand to her mouth while offering unsolicited and not-so-quiet pronouncements of guilt at any wardrobe offense or lapse in decorum. She was clearly an old curmudgeon poorly disguised as a sweet old lady.

Then there was Murel – NOT Muriel. My first thought was that she was the picture perfect embodiment of what advancing age would have done to the innocence of Cindy Lou Who from the Grinch. While Seuss’ Cindy may have preferred Who Ham or Roast Beast, Murel’s favorite meal would surely have consisted of a tub of margarine.

Today, I write of Ms. Delia, who came to GVM in October of 2008 and subsequently joined the troika – rounding out a foursome at Table 5.

I freely admit to immediately falling for this feisty, breathlessly frog-throated woman. She was the perfect counter balance to Mother’s shyness among strangers, Murel’s sparkling lunacy, and Lola’s demand for order in an otherwise chaotic environment.

A product of the Depression, Delia, nonetheless, doggedly pursued a college degree in education from Wayne State University going on to teach “everything” within the walls of a Nebraskan one-room school house. In the years that followed, her marriage, coupled with the demands of her husband's ever-changing career, had the family move through various incarnations in Nebraska, Texas, Louisiana, and, finally, Roosterville.

While they never knowingly met, this also happened to be the same untouched farmland hamlet into which my Mother and Stepfather eventually settled.

It is a small world.

When Delia arrived at GVM, she was full of energy and took every opportunity to engage in vibrant conversation and a good game of Skip Bo with her daughter and a friend. She also didn’t shy from handing me a good measure of well-deserved grief on occasion.

I am not personally inclined to treat these elderly residents with kid gloves; I feel that to do otherwise is to deprive them of the intellectual respect they are due. With time and the development of trust, I zeroed in on some of the buttons which pushed each of the ladies in sundry pleasant directions; they genuinely seemed to revel in the good natured (and well intended) give and take.

Often the prodding would have Lola loudly labeling me a “smartass” all the while assuring me that she loves me. And ever incandescent Murel certainly could do no wrong blowing kisses my way, supporting a fragile male ego by further asserting that I am a “very handsome man.”

And, there was Delia. She rarely dropped a beat, almost never missing the opportunity to give as “good as she got.”

Over the past year, we have all been fortunate to share in her joy as a beloved granddaughter married and subsequently wasted very little time providing Delia with her second great-grandchild, Kane. While I was never certain if the couple had moved to Wyoming, South Dakota, or Kansas, the specifics really didn’t matter. She beamed with pride at the telling of every twist and turn.

She clearly loved her family. I distinctly remember the moment she proudly uttered the declaration that her family “was the most important thing I have ever done.”

Delia’s family and friends began the process of mourning today; she passed away late last night following a devastating stroke.

While extremely sad, I am also compelled to smile and inwardly laugh at the thought of Delia and the great joy and laughter she brought to the lives of those around her.

Over the past year, a persistent source of consternation for Delia came at the hands of a less than agreeable roommate at GVM. Her daughter assured me that Delia never had so difficult a relationship with another person in her life. Delia desperately wanted nothing more than for her “problem” to disappear.

As it turns out, Delia finally got her wish.

Just a few days ago, the roommate was moved to another room after breaking her hip and leg.

The immediate question that came to my mind – and out of my mouth – was, “Did Delia do it?”

Absent Delia’s death, Table 5 was already no longer what it used to be. Wheelchair bound, Mom no longer takes meals in the dining room instead preferring to eat early within her room; Murel has become a veritable vagabond happily flaunting the “rules,” eating margarine while making the rounds at other tables; and, well, Lola remains – the single hold out who continues to fight the good fight.

I didn’t know these three remarkable women before they came to the nursing home; there is a part of me that does like to imagine the full width and breadth of the lives each of them enjoyed before time and circumstances brought them together at that smallest of tables.

There was no getting around it. I absolutely never wanted to like anything about the nursing home, that stupid table, and the old women who occupied space at Mother’s side during meals. But each of these women eventually managed to worm their way into our collective hearts without really trying. We are all the better for it. I personally never would have predicted that such an unruly admixture of personalities and experiences could have melded into such a perfect union of souls.

Whomever they were, or wherever life took these women prior to their arrival at the nursing home was never a part of our shared experience. With time, all of us simply came to love the women who were living in the here and now – the girls from Table 5. Without reservation, the only place to be!

In the next few days or even weeks, family and friends will gather at Stroud’s in a celebration of your life, Delia; they will pass the chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans – and, yes, even the bottle – around the only table that truly mattered in your life. The table of your making.

It is said that a person is never completely gone so long as one person remembers her name.

Your family and friends will not allow Kane to forget you, Delia.

I will cherish the memories of my friend from Table 5.