When James and I exited from the elevator taking us to the second floor, I did a quick scan of the area where folks are seated around the nurses station – hoping to find Constance among them. But no, she was, as usual, in bed under a heap of blankets, and lying in the fetal position. Today, though, she was not fully clothed, but was still in her pajamas. She had been told that her daughter was coming to take her out to lunch – and she had refused to get dressed.
James and I entered and Constance beamed from ear-to-ear. James, it’s you. You’re here. James is my friend. She asked me to have James come up on the bed and lie next to her. As he lay down beside her, he have her some kisses. Oh, she just loved that! It’s wonderful to see how she responds to the dog.
Our visit was cut short by the aid who came in, saying we had to leave because she had to get Constance dressed; her daughter was coming in 15 minutes. I don’t want to see my daughter. She’s mean. I don’t want to go to lunch with her.
I feel so badly for the daughter who comes faithly to visit her mother; eat with her; fix her hair; bring her things from home. She is doing the very best she can. What a terrible disease…
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