“It smells sad in here.”
When my daughter and I started volunteering at the nursing home in 2017, that was her first observation. Although the smell bothered her, Avery always forged ahead, pressing the elevator button with one hand, holding her guitar case in the other.
For the first few years, we visited a woman named Annie.
When Annie passed away, we visited Mama J.
As a bedridden resident in her nineties, her affect was somber and a bit detached —but the sight of Avery with her guitar strapped across her back always lit Mama up.
“How did you imagine I needed you to come here today?” Mama J would ask.
Imagine
That was the word she used. And when Avery started to sing, Mama J’s reactions indicated the experience was almost too good to be true.
“Do you hear what I hear? Do you see what I see?” she’d exclaim in disbelief.
I always hoped one day she would remember us – that we wouldn’t have to start from scratch like strangers every single time we visited. I’d always had hope… until the COVID pandemic shut down the volunteer program, along with that hope. As weeks became months and months became years, our visits with Mama J became a distant memory.
Last Thursday marked the first time I’d set foot in the nursing home in four years. Volunteering has resumed, and I was there to complete the final step of a thorough application process.
Once my TB test was completed, I went to let the Activities Director know. Her office was located at the end of the hallway on the second floor, the same floor Mama J’s room was located.
After learning the activities director was in a meeting, I walked slowly down the second-floor hall, reading the names on every resident’s door.
Mama’s room no longer had her name on it. I walked down the opposite hall to look, hoping that maybe she’d moved rooms.
Noticing my confusion, a staff member asked if she could help me find someone. I said my elderly friend’s full name.
“Hmmm… I don’t recall anyone by that name,” the employee said. “Let me ask someone who has worked here longer than me.”
The veteran staff member came out of a resident’s room and clarified there was no one here by that name.
I thanked the caregivers and quickly found my way to the exit. I was caught off guard by how sad and unsettled I felt.
What happened to Mama J? I wondered sadly, realizing I might never know.
The next day, the activity director called to set our first volunteer date.
Naturally, she assumed Avery would resume playing guitar and singing for the residents like she did before. It had always been clear that she loved performing as much as they loved listening.
“Unfortunately, things have changed,” I said hesitantly. “Avery doesn’t feel comfortable playing her guitar, but she really loves art. We were thinking we could paint or do a craft with the residents.”
I waited for the disappointment and questions that always seem to come when people learn her music stopped in 2021 due to painful circumstances.
“I have kids myself, and the last couple years have taken a toll,” the director said with compassion. “The residents would absolutely love to do art projects with you and your daughter.”
Feeling encouraged by her kindness, I asked her for the information I felt so sure my heart needed to have.
“I don’t know if you are allowed to tell me, but do you remember Mama J?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes, I sure do!” she exclaimed.
“Avery and I visited her regularly from 2018 to 2020, and I couldn’t find her yesterday. Is she… gone?” I asked.
“Mama went to her heavenly home a couple years ago,” the director said in a voice full of warmth. “I remember that day like it was yesterday. Her whole family was at her bedside, and I was there with them. We started to sing – well, because you know how much she loved hymns! Although she’d didn’t talk much anymore, she started to hum along! It was so beautiful and so peaceful. She was 101 years old, you know!”
It took me a moment to digest the enormity of that story and the sacred details I was given. When I found my voice, I said, “Thank you for telling me.”
In response, the director said something that really struck me.
“Thank you for asking, so I could remember.”
When we hung up, tears unexpectedly started to flow.
The word CLOSURE came to mind.
But instead of allowing myself to feel the absoluteness of this loss, I found myself questioning whether I had a right to. Mama J never once remembered us from one visit to the next. She didn’t even know my name.
Did I even have a right to closure in this situation?
It was the oddest internal dialogue, perhaps derived from years of being told I was “too sensitive” or that my deep attachments and emotional reactions were ridiculous or invalid.
As the internal conflict waged on, my mind filled with so many memories standing by Mama’s beside as Avery played. I remembered the way Mama tapped her fingers on her blanket in time with the music… the way she’d say she was too tired to sing that day and end up singing along… the way she’d offer candy to Avery and say, “Take all you want, baby. It’s from my heart.”
Mama J may not have known our names, but she knew our love – and perhaps that matters even more.
On one of her more lucid days, Mama J took my hand between songs and said, “If someone offered me a million dollars or this child singing to me, I’d take this child singing to me.”
When the music stopped in 2021, I think I would have taken the same deal. But as time has gone on and my child is healing from a traumatic event, I am finding joy in seeing my daughter pursue other interests, like tennis, art, and the study of medicine.
The word CLOSURE comes to mind once again.
But this time, I will not question my need for it or my right to it, and I hope this inspires you, dear reader, to validate your own feelings around closure.
Whether it’s the loss of someone you knew for a spell or knew forever… whether it’s an inanimate object, a beloved pet, an ability you once had, or a dream that’s gone… whether it’s a relationship that you’re not even sure why you care so much that it ended.
Wanting closure is normal.
Wanting emotional pain, loss, and grief to end is normal.
Wanting to hold on to someone or something that was once important to you is normal.
Dear one, you have a right to have closure. Anyone who has loved and lost is worthy of it.
I loved that lady with the soulful voice and tapping fingers.
I loved that girl with the guitar strapped to her back.
The absence of these loves hurts, but the gift of having known them in this lifetime outweighs the pain.
“It smells sad in here,” Avery used to say upon arrival to the nursing home, and then, “But the people will be happy to see me.”
I can only imagine who will be waiting for her this time, paintbrush in hand.
Friends, what experiences do you have with closure? Do you ever deny feelings that you have been made to feel ashamed or unworthy of? I welcome your thoughts.
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That video brought tears to my eyes. So beautiful and what a lovely story.
I can't believe how timely this post has been for me. All my life since my granddad died when I was 12 and no one cried at the funeral I've felt like I haven't had permission to grieve when people close to me have died. Just last week traumatic memories of a painful loss from my teenage years resurfaced and I found 20+ years of suppressed grief coming to the surface for a baby that I never got to hold in my arms. At around the same time I went to a funeral for a close family friend and for the first time felt permission to cry. It's like the chains have been broken. Though now the floodgates have opened and I'm crying all the time but it feels good in a way - so freeing.
Thanks for sharing so openly about not feeling validated and not having the right to closure because I can relate in so many ways.
that is so beautiful...and thank you for remembering Mama J to us, you bring her alive and enrich us with her essence. Isn't that amazing?