She

Dad went to see mom today. In her new home, a nursing facility for patients with dementia. He hasn't seen her in almost 7 years, as they had divorced and she had been married to another for a couple years already, before she began to exhibit the effects. Before her new husband began banning family from visiting their house. Before all she had left was him, her dogs, and her sanity. Well, something had to go. First it was the sanity, which was a blessing because the dogs were next. Two weeks ago her husband put her in professional care since this once 130-lb fireball had dropped to near 90 lbs, yet fought him daily at every turn with iron muscles.

When the nurse walked dad up to her, she was eating, better every day they say. She didn't pay much attention to him, she is pretty out of it these days and can't always form words now, let alone complete sentences. So he did what he used to do for the 23 years that they were married. He put his palm on her forehead. She immediately looked up at him, right in his eyes, and said, "Boy that feels good!" and she smiled the biggest smile. The nurses almost fell over. What did you do to her, they wanted to know, to get her to talk and smile? Same ol' dad, just shrugged and said, nothing.

Nothing special, is what he meant, tho they probably don't understand that. Dad has a rare gift of being the kind of person you are immediately comfortable with. He is a loving person, and it exudes out of his being almost visibly. Not that he was perfect, or they may still be married, and he would not have to see her for the first time in a long time in this almost unrecognizable state. Her face is drawn down, and like a dead loved one in a casket, she does not appear to be the person you know is in front of you.

It was this loving energy whom she recognized, whose hand she had felt a thousand times on her forehead, who she begged the nurses to let him stay, with his hand firmly in her inhuman grip, let him stay, she said. I told dad that whatever mom asks for, I tell her yes! Yes, we can go for a ride, yes the doggies are ok, yes I can stay as long as you want. Because for five minutes of lucidity, she is the happiest person on earth. Because after five minutes, she will go back to staring at the wall, or the mirror, or talking to the air again, and what the hell is wrong with letting her be happy in those precious moments?

But the nurses don't understand that. They tell her no, he can't stay. She begs them to let him stay. Still they say no.

She cried.

He left.

Five minutes.