Fading Away

Okay, so the following might seem a bit sentimental, so both forgive me and get ready for it.  The get ready for it part, refers to you probably going through this yourself someday, if you're lucky enough to have your parents live long enough.

Simply stated my mom is fading away, but let's back up a bit.  My mother is now 88, in good health, walks everyday, has had a good long live, has four kids who respect and love her, and is, from her own admission, happy.  Problem is, when your body begins to fail, all of it, from your muscles to your eyesight fails together and that includes your memory.   In my mother's case her short-term memory is getting worse every week.

When I call we always chat for a minute or two.  Having grown up in an era when the phone was to be used only as a tool to get something done or for emergencies, she's never gotten used to just idle chat on the phone, so conversations are short.

She'll ask me about the family and I'll tell her Julian (my 16 year old son) is doing fine and is in a school play.  Not more than a minute or two later she'll ask about Julian and what is he up to.  This happens with everything.  If you tell her you're coming to visit, she'll ask the date, and the time several times.  Then at the end of the conversation she'll ask when she's going to see you.  She'll most often have forgotten by the next day and you'll have to remind her again.

A year or so ago, when she was doing this rarely, I found myself getting a little upset with her, like she just wasn't paying attention.  Later, I found myself forcefully trying to be patient, trying to be sympathetic, but still impatient.  It wasn't until I heard her talk about the disappointment of getting older and forgetting things that I finally relaxed and accepted it.  We've now gotten to the point where I can take pleasure in telling her the same good news twice in the space of a few minutes because I know that she'll be genuinely pleased each time.

But a while ago as her memory got worse I concentrated on 'cures' - typical boy thing to do.  First we had her checked out by a brain doctor, then we figured out helpful memory reminders - duplicate calendars, large electric wall calendar clocks, carefully labeled pillboxes etc.  Meanwhile the family continued to have its gatherings, my mom at the head of the table where she'd always been.  But what was happening slowly was that she was fading away, each time becoming a bit more invisible.  Where as in the past, dinner table conversations would have centered around her, she was now in the background, only occasionally speaking up, and heard only by the people sitting next to her.

I'm sad to say that even into my 50's I looked forward to talking with my mother about my life and all of its struggles - family, career, children, whatever.  I could always count on her to listen, and listen carefully.  She was understanding, and thoughtful in her response, and always made me feel better.  She'd been doing this since I was little.

In my days right after college, for example, I found myself unemployed and a single parent.  When I drove the few hundred miles to see her for a weekend, I looked forward to talking to her about my life.  The thing was, I still remember the feeling that I knew I would end up feeling better after the weekend.  I think it was partly knowing that someone who cared would listen, but it was more than that.  She always gave this very real, strong feeling that everything was going to be okay - and not the sentimental, Hallmark Card sort of way, but in the 'I know about life' sort of way.  She always felt, and could get me to believe, that no matter what was going on, life was way too wonderful and important to ever let small things get in the way.  And by small things, she meant just about everything.  She had the talent that I think the best comedians, blues players or writers have.  They know about the downside of life, and create better because of it.

Well, it was at one of the family dinner parties this year that I realized I wasn't going to have a conversation like this with my mother again.  I'm sure her heart would have been willing but her mind just wasn't up to the task.  Now mind you, I should be old enough to get on with life on my own, and by and large I do.   And my wife, bless her heart, has tried her best to 'understand' me.  But, wives aren't supposed to be their husband's mothers, and while wonderful in the short run, I think this substitution would be rather disastrous in the long term.

So, my mom continues to fade.  I think that the worst part is that I don't want to remember her this way.  I want to remember her as the full of life, wickedly humorous woman she was.  The one I had to shop for a coffin with when her second husband died.  

I was a teenager then and the only one at home for that summer, so I, as the man of the house, had to go with my her to the home of our small town's funeral director, to choose an appropriate box.  In those days, and in many small towns in the east, the funeral director's house was the funeral parlor.

The white-gloved director welcomed us and ushered us into this heavily draped, dark front room full of caskets, their lids propped opened to reveal plush interiors.  He, with a serious face, showed us each one, and was particularly pleased to point out the ones that had paintings on the silk lid linings.  An 'eternally wonderful' feature he said, these sporting scenes of hunters, fishermen, or golfers would, for only a modest cost, 'Comfort my step father in his eternal rest'.

Well, the director got to the one showing a golfer swinging away at the ninth hole, labeled, I do believe, with something like 'The Eternal Shot' and my mother suddenly put her hands to her eyes and looked like she was sobbing.  She asked the director to leave us alone for a bit.  Well, the instant he backed out and closed the double doors behind him my mother broke out in hysterics.   She, through her laughter, tried to tell me that the idea of her 'George' a 275 pound librarian, stuffed into that ridiculous box, swinging a golf club was just too muchfor the next few minutes I laughed with her about as hard as I've ever laughed.  George ended up in a simple wood box.

So, that's the way I want to remember her, and I will do my damnedest to make sure I do.