Mom woke up disoriented today, certain we were party-crashing her sister’s house, that we shouldn’t be there, that we were imposing, and that she was ready to go home. I wondered if I should give her a dose of the Ativan I’d brought along, but by the time my cousins Judi and Stuart showed up from their hotel, Mom had calmed down and we were all eating breakfast together—Jewish east coast foods not in my diet anymore—bagels and cream cheese and lox (I had fruit and half a bagel and peanut butter), orange juice and coffee.
Mom slept through much of the day. She konked out on the couch after breakfast and when we took our one outing of the day to the Clubhouse across the street—a big excursion requiring two cars for our three elderly relatives-—Mom fell asleep again while we sat in chairs around the pool. We conversed around her while she slept. I’d actually brought a bathing suit and went swimming in both of the pools—one normal temperature and the other heated to 85 degrees. It was like swimming in a bathtub.
I assumed that all the travel and the new environment and the new demands on her brain put Mom right to sleep. She was not coping well with being in a new environment–and I realized how much her functioning depends on being in a place where everything is familiar and predictable and there are no expectations on her whatsoever. When we got home from the Clubhouse outing, Mom fell asleep again on the couch until I finally woke her up at 5 for an early dinner. If she slept all day, what was her night going to be like?
Mom perked up over dinner. Esther and Ben brought in a big tray of cold cuts—turkey, beef, pastrami and corned beef, mustard and russian dressing, chopped liver spread on thin tiny slices of pumpernickel bread, three loaves of rye bread, potato salad, cole slaw, and a vat of half sour pickles. Mom and I scarfed down the chopped liver. I hadn’t eaten any in probably ten years, but it tasted great and felt like a sacrament to the Gods of my childhood. I made myself a fat pastrami and mustard sandwich on rye for dinner with a side of cole slaw, and it tasted great: former soul foods from a distant past life circling back into orbit in this retro place. We decided we’d definitely go out for our favorite–hot dogs and sauerkraut–an annual sacrament I’ve missed since I moved Mom out of New Jersey.
After dinner, conversation between the sisters continued. Esther read Temme the riot about never wearing her hearing aids. I said nothing because I’ve given up on getting Mom be a compliant patient in this regard. But it was bothering Esther that every other word out of her sister’s mouth was, “What?” And as she said to Temme in no uncertain language, “I’m going blind and I can’t read and I can’t do anything about that. But you can do something about this. And it really bothers me that you’re not. You need to wear your hearing aids.”
“Okay I will,” Mom said. “I’ll do it when I get home. And Laurie is going to remind me. Now let’s talk about something else.”
And quite easily, the tense moment passed. Judi and Stuart had gone back to their hotel—they had flights to catch in the morning. Ben came back into the living room and I sat with the octogenarians, recording their conversation on my iPhone.
They discussed Joe and Sylvia, their siblings who have already passed on. They shared memories of my grandfather and his Kosher butcher shop on the Lower East Side. Then they moved on to their mother. Mom said, “I dream about Mama some time, do you? I remember visiting Mama on the Belt Parkway. She was so sad and she’d beg me to take her home.” I remember that visit too–I must have been 15. It was right before she died.
Esther recalled her own last days with their mother. “People would say to me, ‘Why do you go see her every day?’ They’d say, “Why do you bring Amy? She’s a little girl. It’s so painful.’ And I’d say, ‘That’s what life is. This is her grandmother.”
Remembering her mother’s suffering in that nursing home, Mom said, “I hope I die quickly.”
Ben chimed in, “You have no choice unless you take your own life. I’ve been on dialysis for seven-and-a-half years and most people don’t last that long. But I’m still here. As a friend said to me, ‘At least at this point we don’t have to worry about dying young.” Then he looked at his wife of 61 years, his childhood sweetheart—they met when Esther was 14 years old and married five years later. “I’m only here because of her.”
“I had a friend,” Esther said, picking up the thread of the conversation, “who died 15 minutes after her husband. That’s what I’d like. But in the case of this couple, the man was so obnoxious, you’d have thought she’d want to breathe a little on her own without him. But she didn’t. With Ben, I’d like to die together.”
“Don’t you think will has anything to do with it?” I asked. “Do you think people can decide they just don’t want to live anymore?”
The conversation ranged over their deaths, my cancer, their son’s premature death at 52, about how life isn’t fair but you make the best of it. Mom hung there, hearing at least half of what was being said, commenting appropriately most of the time.
“This is what I came here for,” I thought. And then Ben said he was tired and had to go to bed. He had dialysis in the morning. It was time for us to go to bed.
I helped Mom out of her clothes and pulled her black and white patterned cotton nightgown over her head. I helped her with her teeth and pulled up her Depends. She lay on the couch in the room next door to the little alcove I’m sleeping in, and I pulled the knitted cotton blanket up to her neck, tucking her in. She looked at me with her mouth caved in, her teeth gone. I wanted to look away from her sagging hollow cheeks and empty mouth, her slurred speech, but I didn’t. I’m sure Mom wouldn’t trust anyone else to see her this way and so I stayed right there and smiled down at her. If only my toddlers had been so easy to put to bed!
“I love you Laurie,” Mom said. “Thank you bringing me to Florida.”
Oh Laura, how moving — and comforting, and inspirational — your account of this journey is. Thank you so much for offering it to the rest of us. You truly are modeling the best and highest sort of filial devotion — yet another gift, among so many. I hope the rest of the trip will go as smoothly as the first two days.
Hugs, Kat
Thanks Kat, so glad you’re out there reading.
I began to read this for you, Laura. Being new friends, I thought it was a nice new-friend thing to do. Now I’m reading it for me. Thank you. My mother and I had a complicated relationship. Her stubborness extended to refusing to have a colonoscopy, despite a year of failing health. I finally insisted, and the colon cancer diagnosis was difficult to accept..A young bastard ofa surgeon frightened her into opting for surgery, which was the cure for the cancer, but the end ofher sharp mind. I arrived at her apartment early one morning and found her—an artist, teacher, political activist, and C-SPAN junkie—staring at the television…it was a cartoon. I asked what she was watching.and she said, “I have no idea.” That’s when I knew her life was nearly over.
Hi Victoria, how wonderful to see your name here. I’m so glad you are following along–and that it is bringing up memories for you. How long did your mother last after that moment?
I spent the last 8 years moving my New York Jewish parents from Florida to California so my sister and I could care for them. My father died 5 years ago just as mom was drifting into Alzheimers. Then we had to move her to assisted living then memory care, finally sitting with her through her death last year. Your story is my story. The mantra-like repetition of Q&A, the shift to parenting your parent, the conversations, the meals (made me hungry), the aunts and uncles, even the furniture in Florida. Such tenderness in it all.
Thanks Lori and welcome to my blog. Yes, I know so many of us have been on this journey…it is bittersweet, and although part of me now is craving the normalcy of “my life,” this, too, is my life.
I retread all of these posts every day. They bring up a flood of memories of caregiving during my mom’s final (90th) year. After a lifetime of what she herself called “fierce independence,” she had become dependent on others to an extent that made me terribly sad until I realized that this cocoon of loving care made her feel secure and nurtured. And the fact that I was part of her support network was a gift to me. I tapped Into to a reservoir of patience I never knew I had. How I wish I had taped some of our conversations from that time. Thanks for giving voice to this bittersweet journey so many of us have or are taking with our parents in their final years. When the time is right, I think there is a book still to be written here.
We’ll see about the book…I think about it often and keep writing these stories down…I’ll have to wait and see. Thanks for reading and taking the time to share your thoughts.
Laura,
As you know, this story is also very much my story — over the the last ten years I grieved for my parents as they devolved from independent 80 year olds to 90 year olds who desperately needed consistency and assistance, while simultaneously railing against their loss of independence and freedom. Reading your story reminds me that there are thousands of us in this place, and I too urge you to publish it in order to help others as they begin their journey into the unknown terrain of the end of life. It was too painful at the time for me to record the details, but they are all here. Thank you.
Thanks Marlene…you’re right, if I wasn’t keeping this blog, I’d never remember the details.
I am so moved by reading this, remembering, remembering.: my husband’s lady-mother, helpless as a baby, living with us her last year until her death at 95; my own mother, independent but lonely and bored until she willed herself to die at 97. I wish my children would read your blog, to somehow be more prepared, more cognizant of what is likely to come. Think about that book, Laura!
Thanks, Barbara…I’m glad you’re with me on this trip!
Thank you Laura for recording this for all of us to share. I have mixed feelings reading it, those of the parents I have lost, things I did and didn’t do for them and then looking over the brink to my own last days and how they might go down. Somehow they seem so close. Knowing the great chasm that existed between you and your mother for such a long time and now how much you love her gives me hope that my daughter will be there in that way for me.
I’m sure she will, Hazel. You too have done so much healing.
So moving. Thank you for sharing your journey Laura.
Thanks, Vasiti. So glad you’re following.
Hi Laura,
Thank you for sharing and caring. As always, your honesty and integrity wakes me up, grounds me, and gives me hope that I can be the best me I can be for myself and loved ones too. I’m hopefully getting to the point of giving up on trying to change my mother, and loving her for who she is. Thanks for the inspiration and best wishes for the rest of your adventure!
Thanks Karen, I’m glad you’re sorting out your relationship with your mother now. It’s often (but not always) easier when they’re alive. Some people have to wait till the other person is gone, but I hope that’s not the case with you.
hi, laura, this is a great. My mom too: when I tell her she moved from NJ to Mass., she says, “I did?” I tell her its to be near me and she likes that but then its gone again. I wanted to say that I also had thought it would be hard to do personal care but when the time came, it wasn’t so hard to rise to the occasion. I also wondered what it would be like if my mom and your mom could be together through this. I esp. love the pictures.
Thanks, Diane from the trenches to one who knows.
Oh, how this touches me. I laughed out loud at your aunt’s comment about her friend dying so soon after her obnoxious husband. And I had tears in my eyes at the end. This is so special what you’re doing. And I’m glad it’s working out so well.
you continue to move me too Laura. Thank you for bringing your mom to Florida and sharing with us the ups and downs of this, our new life.
Kimlin, I know you know exactly what this is all about.
Laura, Thank you for sharing such precious moments with us. I look forward to every entry you send. I am reminded of taking care of my mother during her last few months and also wondering what will be my own journey at the end. I hope my children will be as understanding with me as you have become with your mother. I know the process hasn’t been an easy one for you, but you are a great model for all of us.
Thanks Carolina. We can only hope that our children treat us with kindness when the time comes….
Thank you, Laura for sharing such a personal journey. Your honesty and integrity are admirable (as well as your writing, of course). This brought tears to my eyes.
Thanks, Carole. Thanks for reading.
Laura, I read and re-read each post, feeling both a sense of déjà-vu and wondering what is still to come. Have ‘been there, done that’ with my mother-in-law and my own sweet father, both of whom just faded before our eyes. It was many years of saying goodbye and grieving each step along the way. At the same time, the journey was peppered with the occasional witty remark or spark of the old sense of humor. So there were smiles along the way.
Meanwhile, my difficult mother continues to decline–but with a very hard edge to everything. No appreciation for what we do to assist, just anger at the world because her capabilities are changing. VERY challenging to maintain patience and compassion, when she bites off my head every other sentence.
So thank you for reminding me to appreciate the underlying love and caring that is there. Keep posting and good luck on the rest of the trip.
Susan, welcome to my blog and thanks for sharing your story. I’m lucky now, my mother has been in a sweet phase for about a year, but during the time she was losing her independence, she fought tooth and nail and things were very, very hard. So I get it. I ended up in some screaming fights with my mom that we’re awful.
What a beautiful example of being totally present and openhearted. Reading your story, I felt like I was there. Very moving. Thanks so much for sharing.
Thanks Myra. So glad you’re on the journey with me.
Of course I am enjoying your mom story very much and I am also enjoying the interesting comments of others; more than I ever have before. So many of us have similar mom memories.
Lots to think about from everyone. Thank you.
June, you’re very welcome. I’m enjoying a lot of new people commenting this week as well. It’s been a treat for the writer in me to get such a nice response.