A Little Flame

Remember back in November when I thought Mom was dying? Ha. Six months later and she is still alive, alert and enjoying lemon meringue pie.

In January, we moved her to a truly lovely home with 5 residents. It’s in Montecito, so she’s Oprah’s neighbor.

The place is run by two Polish people. There’s a woman my mom calls “Doris” or “Dorothy” because she can’t remember her Polish name. She is former nurse who loves to decorate for holidays and keeps every surface in the home shining clean.

And then there’s the man. He’s one of the most caring people I have ever met. Maybe 45 years old, strong, stocky, with a cute accent. He calls the ladies “Darling” and “Sweetheart” and makes little jokes with them as he takes them to the restroom, makes their beds, wipes their chins.

Last time I was there, Mom leaned over, eyes gleaming. “I have fallen in love with that guy!” she said with surprise in her voice. “I just did!”

I glanced from my mom, 92 years old, in her wheelchair with her catheter bag, back hunched – over to him.

“Ok,” I said. “Just don’t let his wife find out.”