I’m just back from a visit to Mum. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks because the care home has been closed by a bout of sickness which had taken a full toll on residents and staff alike.
Mum didn’t recognise me as I walked towards her. I’m getting used to that feeling now. A smile and a cheery wave is normally enough to coax a response from her and it was today. It was a busy morning at the home, with barely anywhere to sit together so we retreated to Mum’s bedroom.
The room is decorated with photographs, memories of happy, happy times.
Mum is smiling in all of them. Whenever I think of times gone by, Mum is always smiling. I looked around the room at the photos and then at Mum in front of me. I was looking at two different people.
I call this blog She’s Still My Mum because she is, and always will be. And yet, she isn’t the Mum I grew up with. The face is familiar but the person is, for most of the time, a stranger. Every week I visit a stranger and when, last week, I couldn’t visit, I missed it.