The Man in My Mother's Bedroom

An edited version of this post is scheduled to be included in a "Chicken Soup for the Soul" book to be published Spring 2014.

The desk has been shoved unceremoniously into a corner, its chair removed. The bed no longer reigns as queen in the middle of the room but has been reduced to a much less important position closer to the window. A hospital bed now serves as its companion. A recliner, with very large arms, competes for space. This piece, designed as half sleeper and half catapult to assist in propelling its occupant forward, is covered with sheets and a blanket. It plays a central role in a new dynamic here. There is an unmistakable statement, advising all of the troubles within these walls.

My mom is resting in the recliner as I enter the room. Her eyes are closed, and she appears to be neither awake nor quite asleep. It is a condition that has become all too familiar. This room, this state of half being, is the universe she inhabits with increasing frequency.

"Madam,  your son Rob is here, Rob is here". My mom half opens her eyes. "Rob?", "Robert." "I am right here Mom." I put my hand in hers and squeeze. She is surprisingly warm, and she squeezes back with a strength that acknowledges not only my presence but the depth of her feelings for me.

I try to converse with her, to keep her awake. It is only 5 PM, but this has become her new bedtime. She has exchanged night for day, and sleep now comes at all the wrong hours. So, one of my roles is to try to keep her up just a little longer, as we hopefully reset her clock, little by little.

I chronicle what my day has been like, and then a few seconds later I do it again. I make the smallest of small talk, trying to come up with anything that will keep her mind occupied. It is most often a losing battle, and she drifts away into her own world.

In the background, there is the unmistakable voice of the 1940's. The boy from Hoboken is crooning in those gentle soothing tones, telling stories of love and tenderness. Suddenly, my mom raises an arm, acting as conductor to the band that accompanies the sounds of Sinatra. Then the most remarkable thing happens. She begins to sing, in clear voice and tone. She recalls perfectly each syllable, each note. After several moments, she grows quiet.

"Mom, did you ever see Sinatra perform?". "Oh yes", she tells me. She is now more fully awake. "It was really quite a few years ago". For a person who has lost any concept of her age, or where events occurred on a time line, this acknowledgement is an aberration. "Do you remember who went with you to hear him? Where was it?". I know when her eyes move up and to the corner that she is searching her memory bank for clues.She tries to recall specifics but it is hopeless.

She begins to sing again, and I accompany her. I remember some of the words from the days I stood next to my Dad, at the piano, reading over his shoulder as he played Sinatra in our living room. I squeeze my mom's hand to tell her how nice this is, and she reciprocates.

In a bit, she is again silent. But I can sense how much she is enjoying the music. Her arm begins to conduct in perfect rhythm. I stop trying to intercede and just let her have this time to herself, with Frank.

There is a man in my mom's bedroom, filling up her mind and giving her comfort. She and Sinatra are in harmony. She is happy. And so am I.