A couple of weeks ago we visited Don's Aunt Elva for possibly the last time. At 105, this is not the first time we've wondered if this is our last visit, but somehow this one felt like it might truly be the last one.
His aunt remembers hearing the factory whistles signally the end of World War I in 1917. She remembers going to Rider College before World War II (we realized this is her 85th reunion year!). She remembers working in a bank as her children were growing up. She remembers a mutual friend bringing brownies to work one day in exchange for learning her middle name (I shared the story with the mutual friend who remembers it as if it was yesterday). She remembers family gatherings from when Don was a small child. She remembers holding Ashley as a baby, and where Ashley is attending college.
Up until this visit we could talk to her for three hours without repeating a conversation. This time was a struggle.
Covid has been hard on her. It kept her (and many others in vulnerable health situations) isolated. She was separated from her family and other visitors in an effort to keep her healthy.
Many staff still caught Covid. It has proven to be impossible to quarantine away.
When restrictions were lifted a year ago, armed with our new vaccine cards, Don and I took a "vaxication" to visit her. Last month we went back.
Conversation was hard. We don't know how to work her hearing aids. I could go on. We split our visit into before lunch and after lunch. When we returned after lunch, she was napping. She looked so peaceful. We were so tired. We sat next to her, and took a nap, too.
Sometimes the best we can offer is simply being there. Letting her know we care enough to travel 6 hours to see her. She doesn't have to entertain us. We don't have to entertain her. We just need to BE.
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