"Finding Gray Matter," by Karen Koretsky

We sit together in her room, the west facing window slanting autumnal sunlight over her tiny, fragile frame. To warm her, I zip up her fuchsia fleece jacket and tuck a blanket over her legs.

I’ve brought her a snack; a jelly donut and a cup of ginger ale. I lift a small bite size section of the donut toward her mouth, the raspberry filling glistens like a jewel and is abundant. She widens her eyes, does not open her mouth, only parts her lips, tastes a little of the jelly and nods appreciatively: “ummmm.”

I wipe her lips with a napkin and try to get her to sip a little ginger ale. I tilt the straw toward her mouth. She is less likely to choke if she takes small sips.

I notice something gray, indiscernible, darting out between her teeth, then back in her mouth. I’ve caught her trying to eat towels, wrappers, plastic, and all sorts of other inedible things. What could she possibly be chewing?

“What do you have in your mouth, Mom?” my voice edged with fear and frustration.

She looks at me for a moment, her eyes deep and clear, a beautiful blue like the springtime sky. Then her eyes look past me at the wall decorated with a small whiteboard smeared with ghostly remnants of letters and numbers: gray wisps of information no longer accessible.

“Mom! Open your mouth for me, please!” I plead.

Her gaze returns to mine, the grayish object reappears between her clenched teeth and disappears again.

I pull her lips back and examine her teeth; they are discolored and cracked but that is expected of someone approaching their 90th year of life. I suspect no one really helps her brush them clean. What’s the point, anyway? Her teeth will likely outlast her heart.

I try a demanding tone dashed with affection to see if she will comply: “Mommy, I need you to open your mouth now!”

I demonstrate by opening my mouth wide and saying “ahhhhhh.”

She is unyielding, watches me with disinterest as her passive mastication continues.

I notice an aid walking down the hall. I call out to her for some assistance. I explain what is going on. She puts her face close to my mother’s and says in a sing song tone:

“Marjorie, open your mouth, let’s see what is in there, darling.” The aid pinches my mother’s cheek.

My mother lowers her wiry silver brows, lifts a palm and five knotted fingers with arthritic knuckles and growls…“Don’t you…!”

My mother always hated being called “darling” or similar pet names by strangers. Her act of defiance resurfaces a little of her original bold spirit. The mother I once knew returns to the room for a fleeting moment as if none of this horrible situation is real.

I often leave the nursing home feeling like I have dementia too, my mind is such a jumble of confusion from the altered reality of life there. I typically cry the whole drive home.

I thank the aid and tell her I’ll continue to try and remove the object. She leaves the room.

What the hell is my mother chewing? I imagine all kinds of horrific things, yarn, paper napkins, a tea bag string?

I realize I’ve spent too much of my life trying to extract things from other’s mouths; from my children’s when they were toddlers, little nieces and nephews, to now my petulant puppy. I envision what I will do if my mother chokes. Can her 90-pound frame withstand the Heimlich? Will I crack her ribs? And what would be the point?

What is the point of any of this?

For a decade of my life I’ve managed the care of my mother in some shape or form as she has spiraled into the arms of dementia. Her ability to move and express herself has diminished slowly, the persona of my strong dignified mother disappearing gradually, painfully. I fight against her reality in order to remember, to hang on to who she was, who we were, as readily as I fight to make sense of who this person is sitting before me, essentially mute, unable to move her shoulders or legs, who’s forgotten to eat more than puree, this being, frail, fleeting and yet not willing to give up. Where is my mother?

It makes no sense.

She has forgotten everyone in her life but me. When I enter the room her face softens, and she works up as close to a smile as she can. I believe she understands most everything happening around her but just cannot respond, and I pity her and resent her all at once. It’s so damn complicated.

Tears fill my eyes, but I cannot let her see me cry. I will not pile upon her my sadness and let her absorb any of it. I turn away from her and try to contain my tears. My eyes sting in a way they never have; my tears must contain such bitterness and intense grief. The tears pool in my eyes and feel like they are caustic. The tears make me realize just how deep is my pain and response to this slow grueling loss.

I compose myself. I turn back toward her and grasp her lower jaw.

“I need you to open your mouth right now! Marjorie.”

The gray object flashes out and back in.

Is this a game? Is she trying to torment me? I want to give up.

Last February when she was stricken with the flu, both the nursing staff and I were convinced she was going to die. We carefully kept watch over her and tried to make her as comfortable as possible. And then, my remarkable mother bounced back. Of course I was relieved she did not die, but then this nightmare, a different kind of loss, a slow arduous one, lingers.

“It’s not her time,” one of the aids remarked in February. “God always has a plan, and he does not want her yet.”

I am a spiritual woman and I believe in a benevolent God. I know better than to try and make sense of the universe and life cycles, but I continue to return to a stance of questioning. Is this a lesson for me, somehow? What is the damn message? I am constantly sifting, seeking, and deciphering.

Does the fact that my mother can enjoy simple comforts justify her quality of life? Does she experience more of the good than the bad? Who can know for sure? Is anyone hurting her or mistreating her? I cannot know for sure.

So many of my friends’ mothers have died. My father died when I was 23. Shouldn’t I feel blessed just to see my mother and be with her? At times I do. But this essence in the hospital chair doesn’t seem like my mother. This feels like a bad dream to me, and I worry it may for her, too.

I insert a finger between her clenched teeth and hope she won’t bite me. I give the front of her mouth a sweep. And there it is, a gray glob of gristle from her lunch; she knew enough not to try and swallow it and must have been trying to chew through it. I grab it and remove it from her mouth.

“Good job! You did it!” I praise halfheartedly.

I pinch the blob, carry it to the trash can, and copiously wash my hands at the little sink. I feel disgusted and satisfied all at once. Another disaster averted. Was it for the best? The conflicting emotions flood my mind.

When I return to her chair, my mother’s cheeks lift, eyes brighten, and she smiles as if the whole incident never took place and she is seeing me for the first time, ever.

In that moment she appears happy and aware, I am relieved, the sunlight embraces us, and we are together.

Perhaps that is the point after all.