Excerpt from Singing Solo: In Search of a Voice for Mom
I have been reduced to counting chocolates. As the old saying goes, who would have ever thought? But here I am in a room at the end of a long nursing home corridor, sitting by the bedside of my dementia-stricken mother, counting Godiva chocolates, or should I say, finding no more to count.
This story began a few months earlier. On her 88th birthday Mom received two beautiful gold boxes of Godiva chocolates from a dear family friend, and I needed to find a secret hiding place for these treasures.
Hiding them was essential. Past experience had been my teacher. My lesson began one afternoon when I arrived later than usual and decided a mid-afternoon treat was in order.
“How about a chocolate, Mom?” I said as I popped open one of two boxes of Whitman’s Samplers that were stacked on an open shelf of her TV stand. To my surprise, since Mom was incapable of helping herself to this treat, I discovered that the first layer of candy was picked over.
“Someone must be taking the time to feed you some of your chocolates,” I said, smiling at the thought that a staff person took the effort to offer this bit of compassionate care. I raised the paper divider expecting to find a complete selection of mixed chocolates in the bottom row. To my amazement the entire second layer was devoid of candy with nothing remaining except empty white paper cups lined up in perfect rows. I turned my attention to the second box and was astonished to discover that the seal was broken on it as well. I opened it and found more white paper cups in both the top and bottom layers, but not one single chocolate remained. It was obvious that someone besides Mom was enjoying her candy, and whoever it was also attempted to cover up the loss by putting the few remaining pieces in the top row of the top box.
Did I report a chocolate thief? No. I thought about it, but if a hardworking staff member wanted a sweet now and again, I’m sure Mom would have graciously shared hers if she could have spoken. I kept the discovery to myself and began my secret pastime as ace detective. Just who was the chocoholic, I wondered? I searched through Mom’s miscellaneous things until I uncovered another box of candy that I hadn’t had the heart to throw away months, maybe even years, earlier. These chocolates were old, old, old…tinges of white streaked the chocolate exterior, and the inside nougats could shatter teeth. I counted the chocolates…17. I placed the closed box on the open shelf of the TV stand where the Whitman’s Samplers had previously sat. And every day when I visited, I counted chocolates…17, 17, 17… for days the number stayed the same and I deduced that my dismal-looking chocolates did not entice the chocolate thief. But then a pattern developed. On one particular day seventeen dropped to 13, and then days went by until 13 dropped to 10 and several days later, 10 to 7. It was as I suspected. The chocolate bandit was an occasional visitor and thankfully not one of Mom’s regular aides.
So, when Mom’s friend Zippy presented her with a present of not one, but two, beautiful gold boxes of the very best – expensive, delectable Godiva truffles, I knew that I needed to hide them from the chocolate thief. I stashed both boxes in an inconspicuous flat container and slid it on top of a plastic storage bin high on the closet shelf. Occasionally I retrieved the candy, a task requiring a folding chair and a balancing act. After Mom and I split one of the huge, delicious truffles I climbed back up into the closet and hid the box again. One day I decided that I needed to find a handier hiding place. I took one candy box and placed it in a dresser drawer that was clearly marked for out of season clothes. No need for anyone to go into this drawer now that winter has arrived, I reasoned. I hid the box between folded summer-weight knit tops. I looked around for a second hiding place. Finding none, I decided to take the second box home for the time being.
Several days later, like a mouse sniffing out cheese, the chocoholic struck again. I opened up the dresser drawer and found Mom’s knit tops in disarray. I retrieved the Godiva box and discovered someone had been snooping – chocolates were missing and the elastic cord around the box was not as I had left it. But on that particular day I hurried my visit. Trying to muffle my sneezing and coughs, I quickly checked in on Mom and left without changing the box’s location. After two days of nursing a cold, I returned for a visit and discovered that not only were the rest of the truffles missing, but the gold box had disappeared as well.
Now it was time to report. Val, the floor’s supervisor, stepped into Mom’s room looking for a staff person. As she turned to leave, I asked if we could talk. She indicated that she was on a mission and would catch up to me later. I waited and then realized that she and others were at the far end of the floor engaged in a ritual of accompanying a deceased resident out to a waiting hearse. How important is a box of chocolates in comparison to the great loss at the other end of the floor? Without talking to Val I left the building and drove home.
But once home I stared at the second box of Godiva chocolates…the one I had removed for safekeeping. How ludicrous! Mom was lying in a bed eight miles away, and on my desk sat her chocolates. To insure that they will not be stolen, must I take them over to her one at a time? The absurdness of the situation overtook me. I opened the beautiful gold box and stared at the chocolates. And then, in a fit of insanity, I grabbed a marker and scribbled “SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!” on a notecard and placed it on top of the truffles before closing the box.
On Sunday I visited Mom and I placed the box with the notecard in Mom’s dresser drawer between her knit tops where the first box had disappeared. Will the chocolate thief return and read the note? Will he/she experience a moment of fear that the unethical theft of chocolate has been indelibly recorded on a granny-cam? But, most important, will he/she feel a tiny bit of remorse for pawing through personal belongings and stealing from a helpless resident?
Monday, the box appeared untouched. Tuesday at 3:00 p.m. no change, but today, Wednesday at 1:30 p.m. I discover that all the chocolates have disappeared from the gold box. The time to talk to Val has arrived. She accompanies me to Mom’s room where I describe the scenario. She assures me that she will remind staff of the policy that forbids them from taking candy from a resident without being invited.
I stare at her incredulously. A policy reminder about chocolates?
“This isn’t simply about chocolates,” I want to rage. “This is about trust – this is about providing a safe, secure living arrangement for a vulnerable adult. Open your eyes,” I want to scream. But I can’t get the words out. Bruised from three years of challenging the status quo, I fold, like the exhausted, disheartened person I have become. Val, appearing satisfied that she had placated one more disgruntled family member, leaves to attend to other duties.
So, here I sit, staring at a beautiful gold box, now devoid of chocolates. This time, at least, the chocolate thief has left the box behind. I decide to use it for storage. On Mom’s TV stand sits a stack of Christmas letters waiting to be filed away. They fit nicely into the empty gold box. I secure it with the elastic cord and tuck it away among Mom’s other treasures.
Two days pass. I return. The pretty gold box and its contents, the Christmas letters, have disappeared. I crumple. Game over, I declare. The thief has won with the help of the nursing home system. I don’t want to play anymore. Silently, I walk to the dayroom in search of empty boxes. As Mom naps I spend the remainder of the afternoon packing up the rest of Mom’s “treasures” for their trip to their new home, eight miles down the road.
JacLynn Herron 
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