Mother’s Restless Hands
Now deep in the forest of Alzheimer’s, mother doesn’t like to be told to rest, doesn’t like confinement even at age eighty-seven. Dementia plays its daily tricks on her brain, but after a lifetime of work and service to patients, family, and even strangers in need, her hands seem to have a mind of their own.
Mother counts money to distribute to children whose names we don’t recall. She makes imaginary phone calls arranging anesthesiologists for surgeries in our hospital next door; squeezes my hand a dozen times a day, asking if I need money. She reaches out to touch visitors entering her room, mistaking them for loved ones long gone. Often, my mother’s fingers reach for my wrist to feel my pulse out of habit, wanting to make sure I’m alright. Other times, I watch them twitch and tremble, these hands that have delivered hundreds of babies and comforted thousands of patients, are restless to do more.
I trace the velvet geography of veins, exquisitely wrinkled skin, and lines on mother’s hands- countries of safe refuge, cities of soft hope and safe harbor, and always, even now- unconditional love.