Comforting My Mother-In-Law in Her Last Days
Words by Ann E. Hultberg
I waited until my mother-in-law left her kitchen to open the coveted junk drawer, the top one next to the sink, and stare at the five inch long twist ties all lined up on the right side. A multitude of colors: yellow, black, silver, green, red. Why would anyone save so many of those metal fasteners? They were placed next to the scissors, packs of peppermint Dentyne gum, and screwdrivers and coin wrappers.
At first I didn’t understand the fixation, a don’t-throw-those-away attitude. The "born in the Depression and have been in one ever since" mentality. One generation not appreciating the whims of another. My husband, daughter, and I chuckled after she took out the last slice of bread from the plastic wrapper, for we knew that the bread tie would be straightened and placed with the others in the drawer. These funny creatures never really lose their shape. No matter how many times you try to flatten them, there are always curves and bumps along the stem. And the metal stick eventually pokes out of its covering, losing its coat, leaving it naked. But she still kept them all.
She performed the same routine with the packages of sweet rolls, hot dog rolls, hamburger rolls. As soon as the last item was eaten from the wrapper, her hands, contoured more with veins than bones, unfurled the precious tie and carefully positioned it on top of the others in the drawer.
These worn twist ties had many uses. Freshly dug leeks, when cleaned, were tossed in a plastic bag, twisted at the opening and secured with a tie. Left over pizza, once wrapped in foil, would be slid into a plastic bag and tightly closed with a twist tie. Loose shoe strings, all different colors and lengths, were bunched together and held with this wire. Rubber bands, small appliance cords too were managed by these metal strips. These twisty ties kept food fresh and the house fastidiously neat - sundry items fastened together and easily found.
As she aged, now a widow, maneuvering with a walker, shoulders hunched and legs as skinny as the ties she collected, the twist ties no longer looked like they had been ironed. Most remained bent into a V shape; some looked like a winding road. A few curled like a pig’s tail. They were hastily, without attention to detail, so unlike her meticulous nature, but still by habit, thrown back into the junk drawer, now rarely used. They were scattered as her words were these days: jumbled, tossed, and turbid.
As time went on, her residence now in the nursing home, the ties were found crushed in the cushions of her reading chair, erroneously used as book markers, and entwined in her hairbrush on the dresser, mistaken for bobby pins. We found them in her denture cup, thought to be a toothpick to loosen bits of chicken from her upper plate. Several encumbered her finger believed to be a wedding ring.
But these steadfast pieces of wire still had their uses, though in a different manner. To hold together what was falling apart: the increasing distance separating mind to words, impalpable thoughts to actions. Something reusable, malleable, practical was comforting to keep.
Image by Ann Hultberg of her daughter and mother-in-law
In her last days, she held on to a single twist tie like she might a precious jewel while we tried to feed her. Her fingers stroked the tie, perhaps trying to evoke a memory from its feel, the only movement, besides her shallow breathing, that signaled she was still alive. Many of the residents kept company with a doll or stuffed animal as a means of soothing, but Harriette held on to her twist tie, physically touching a world which was elusive to her now.
The applesauce glistened on her dry, thin lips, which remained closed; prying with the cafeteria spoon was futile. The bony jaw persisted in staying clamped. Nothing could pass through those gates, including words. Her son placed his hand on her lowered forehead, one that almost touched the table, brushed her white hair aside, and pushed gently to right her position. Jaw now parallel with the table, I cupped my hand under her chin, stubbly with those pesky, short hairs, and pulled down enough to place a spoonful of applesauce between those lips. I pushed on her top lip to close the opening and slid the spoon out, now empty, and hoped she would swallow the nourishment. No movement of the neck. No visible indication that she had swallowed her once favorite fruit. Afraid that she might choke, I gently wiped the inside of her mouth with a napkin to absorb the specks of sweetness she no longer desired, then dipped a blue mouth swab into her untouched glass of water and dabbed a few drops onto the cracks of her lips. She did not know how to swallow. Her now 100 pound frame was ready for a rest.
About the Author:
Ann Hultberg is a retired high school English teacher and currently a composition instructor at the local university. Her degrees are in English and reading education and educational psychology. She writes nonfiction stories about her family, especially focusing on her father’s escape from Budapest, Hungary, to the United States. Her essays have been accepted by Persimmon Tree, Dream Well Writing, Drunk Monkeys, and Fevers of the Mind.