September 24th, 2020

This past February — the last time I was allowed inside my mom's apartment to visit — we were planning her 90th birthday celebration coming up on Sept. 11. She reminisced about her mother’s 90th birthday party and said she wanted a big party for her own milestone.

And then March came, and the pandemic was upon us.  My mom, who was living in the independent living section of her senior community at the time, was on complete lockdown. As the months passed, the isolation began to wear on her. She could no longer see her friends or participate in activities. My brother who lived nearby wasn’t allowed in the building. We relied on the already overburdened staff to check on her.

On our daily FaceTime calls I saw her confusion grow and her physical, mental and emotional health decline. Somehow, she still knew how to hit “accept” on her phone so we could check in virtually – a true gift.

And then she ended up in the hospital, twice — not for Covid, but for failing to move, eat or drink.  She’d forgotten she needed to.  I thought when I spoke to her on the way into the hospital it would be for the last time. 

It wasn’t.  She rallied.

We are blessed that she’s in an incredible facility. They knew she could no longer live on her own and helped us transition her to assisted living, where she could have more care.

As soon as we were given permission to visit her outside, we drove the five hours to see her.  We were allowed one hour to visit, and we drove five hours back home that same day. It’s hard, but I’ve done that as often as I can over the last few months.

For me, her isolation and swift decline has been one of the hardest parts of this pandemic. Before the pandemic she was slowing down, but she remained feisty and vibrant.  Post-pandemic, she is confused, scared and deeply depressed. 

Sometimes we get terrified calls from her, when she doesn’t know where she is. I try to calm her down. “See Mom, you have pictures of Dad and all of us around you — you are home, you are safe.”

I get that her decline might have happened anyway.  But I am convinced that her isolation from her family and others has crushed her.  For months I have been grieving my mother even as she is still with us. 

And then I thought of those who have actually lost their parents to this virus.  And I realized I have to be grateful that she’s still here on the planet.  I can still say "I love you," and she can say "I love you" back. When she sees one of my kids, her whole face lights up. And, most important, I take great comfort knowing my mother is well cared for and safe.

As her big birthday approached, I knew we needed to do something. My sister and I were given permission to visit, along with our husbands.  Our brothers visited separately. All outside.  All for one hour.

We brought her favorite food (pastrami), an enormous balloon in the shape of “90” (although the zero flew away upon arrival), and pictures of her newest great grandchildren. Mom wore a tiara and a sash that said, “birthday girl” and just beamed.

Of course, the next day she didn’t remember any of it.

But I’ve come to realize it doesn’t really matter if she does. She loved it in the moment, and perhaps that’s the lesson we can all learn from this pandemic, no matter our age.  If we can find joy in any one moment, it's a gift. 

First Published in the Democrat and Chronicle and USA Today Network.