My Mother's Hands by Jane Domian Cordova (Jane's Domain)

About a week after Mom died, I caught a cold. And then I gave it to Vince. (I'm good at sharing that way...!)

Whenever I've gotten sick throughout my life, I have always wanted my mom. Even in my adult life, I will utter under my breath, "I want my mommy!" Part of it was me making a "funny" as I knew Mom wouldn't run down to Columbus every time I caught a sniffle just to hand me a tissue. 

But part of it was real - because a mother's love, care and concern for her children help make it better. Always.

When I think about it, it wasn't mom's comforting words I was hearing in my head - it was her hands: her efficient nurse's palm feeling my forehead to check if I had a fever. Rubbing my temples to ease the pain. And patting my head or rubbing my back to let me know it would all be okay.

As an adult, mom would hear in my voice if I was sick during our weekly calls. Sometimes I would downplay it so she wouldn't worry. But she did anyway. And she'd call and check on me until I was better. 

The last time I remember mom comforting me was only last year. She was in truly bad shape after her second broken hip. She could no longer walk and was declining in all ways more than I ever thought my little, tough-as-nails mom would ever decline. 

It was the last time I sat with her in her apartment at Parkside Village. Usually, I met her in the dining room and fed her as her hands were no longer steady enough to hold a utensil and bring the food to her mouth. 

But that day, we went back to her room after dinner. I was sitting in my normal spot and moved her wheelchair close to me so we were facing each other. We no longer had conversations - I would just talk and she would listen. Once in a while, she made murmuring noises as if to let me know she was following along - or trying to, anyway. 

It had been a hard time for me. I was missing my mom even though she was sitting right in front of me. I was missing our conversations and our time together as we drank a glass of wine and I told her the news of the day. 

I was also sad because Vince's stepmother had recently died unexpectedly and we were trying to help his 89-year-old dad maneuver through the mourning process and the business side of handling details following a death.

And I was tired.

So as I was sitting there talking to her, I got overwhelmed and choked up. I put my head down in her lap because I didn't want to upset her by crying in front of her.

Suddenly, she pulled her hands out from underneath the blanket and started patting my head. 

Of course, that made me want to cry even harder...but I got myself under control, sat back up - and said I was okay. And I thanked her and told her I loved her. Back then, she was able to tell me she loved me, too.

It was another poignant moment that mom and I shared that I will never forget. 

But Mom's hands weren't only there for comfort. In my mind's eye, I can see her standing at the stove stirring a pot preparing dinner for her four children and her husband. I see her squinting at the needle in her hand trying to thread it to fix a tear or a hole in our clothes to eke out a few more months of wear. 

And I see her doing laundry and folding clothes in that efficient, no-nonsense manner that told me it was a task she didn't particularly care to do but knew it had to be done. We had no Laundry Fairies that would handle those tasks. Well, that is, until the four of us kids were old enough to help.

But let me tell you about mom's hands. Her fingers were bent and her knuckles were enlarged from the arthritis that plagued them. From the time I was young, I remember her beseeching anyone nearby to open a jar or use the can opener to open the dreaded can of peas or peaches for dinner. (It wasn't until I was an adult that I learned that fruits and vegetables weren't supposed to be mooshy!) But Mom simply didn't have the strength in her arthritic hands to perform these basic tasks.

I remember when I was in high school we had a hand-held mixer that was starting to go on the fritz. So I saw mom start mixing whatever she was making by hand. I could tell it pained her, so I asked if I could help. 

Then, as Mother's Day approached that year, I got the idea to buy her a new mixer. Dad thought it was too extravagant a gift, but I was feeling flush from all my babysitting gigs and I bought it for her anyway. (Little did I know yet that women do NOT want appliances for Mother's Day!) 

But that mixer was well-used and it was still in their kitchen cabinet when my friend Sue and I cleaned it out after Dad had passed and we were preparing to put their house on the market. 

Throughout her life, Mom would say she had ugly hands because of the arthritis and she rarely polished her fingernails with anything but clear polish. Once in a great while, she'd allow us to paint her nails a pale, pale pink - but that was about as bright as she'd go. 

Once Alzheimer's took hold of her and she moved to the memory care unit, polishing her nails became an activity we enjoyed together. 

Mom would look at my bright nail polishes - hot pinks and reds and purples - and she started asking for those vivid colors for herself. I, of course, indulged her and we'd spend a good hour making her nails look pretty. (Of course, Mom would forget what we were doing and she'd run her fingers over her clothes thus smearing her nails and we'd have to start over again!) 

This year - when COVID-19 caused the world to shut down and we could only visit mom outside from six feet away - I rarely saw her hands as they were hidden underneath a blanket. Mom was always cold, even if it was 85 degrees outside! 

But the last image I have of mom's hands was the weekend she died. I was finally able to see her in her room; something I hadn't been able to do for over seven months. Mom was on oxygen and I knew her time was near. I picked up her hand - now bereft of any polish whatsoever - and I held it. I talked to her and told her how much we all loved her. I said that she had been able to see all four of her children only the week before.  I told her it was okay for her to leave - that we'd be okay. And I prayed out loud while holding the hand that had comforted me my whole life. 

Those tiny arthritic hands were the most powerful hands I will ever know. But I know my brothers and sister and I benefited from them. And I will be forever grateful for their remembered touch. 

Jane Domian Cordova

Jane's Domain

10-23-2020

 

If I Could Go Back…

I visited my mom yesterday. She had the newspaper on her lap and, for once, she opened it to read beyond the headlines on the front page. But she didn’t really understand what she was reading.

“Who is Harvey,” she asked.

“No, mom,” I said. “Harvey isn’t a ‘who’ – it’s a ‘what,'" I answered. And I explained that it was a devastating hurricane that has affected Texas and other states.

She expressed dismay…for about a half a second.

And then she read the headline again – and, once again, asked me about Harvey.

Sometimes I think she surely must be testing me.  That she really does remember, but she wonders if I’ll give her the same answer every time she asks.

But, sadly, I know mom truly doesn’t remember. That from moment to moment, her grasp on what is happening is fleeting. When she is in her little room in her rocking chair, she can be as comfortable as possible with her situation. But if we take her out of that comfort zone, she is stressed.

And she doesn’t know what is going to happen next. Or what she is supposed to do. And she very desperately does not want to appear to be incapacitated – and that, I think, is what stresses her the most.

I miss my mom. My old mom. The woman who was strong, intelligent, decisive and had an opinion about everything. Some of which I didn’t agree with. Ha. Okay, so there were many opinions mom had that I didn’t agree with. Funny to think that now I miss having those kinds of discussions with her.

And then I wish I could go back. Back to those days when mom would state an emphatic opinion and I’d just roll my eyes and say, “uh, huh…” If I could go back, I’d try to engage with her – and try to have the lively debate she really wanted to have.

Instead, I’d look at them as confrontations instead of discussions and I avoid confrontations like the plague. I’d end up doing whatever I could to get her focused on something else.

“Hey mom – does this hangnail look infected to you?”

Yeah. Like that worked. That mom knew what I was doing. But most of the time she’d let me change the subject anyway.

Mom had this funny habit. She’d state her opinion in the form of a question. She’d say, “I don’t really like the style of her hair – do you?” And then we were left with the option of either agreeing with her – or disagreeing with her. But we knew what answer we were supposed to choose! And if we disagreed, we knew there would be a debate about it until we came over to her side of the aisle. Sometimes, we’d agree with her just so we wouldn’t have the ensuing debate.

That example was a mild one, though. Mom would have strong opinions about everything – including the “heavy” subjects like politics and religion. And she was well-informed. She read books and newspapers and watched the news. So there were very few current events that mom hadn’t heard about.  And there were even fewer subjects she didn’t have a strong opinion about.

Nowadays, devastating hurricanes are beyond her grasp.

I wish I could go back and hear her state an opinion again. About ANYthing. I wish I could go back and cherish even those moments when mom and I disagreed – just because I’d know she was fully engaged in the conversation.

I wouldn’t even use the infected hangnail ruse.

I Miss You, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Typical "Dad" pose. Arms crossed - probably saying, "Yes, Dear."

I’ve been spending a lot of time this past week thinking about my dad and missing him. Not only because Father’s Day is coming up and it will be our first Father’s Day without him, but because I keep remembering last year at this time. When he fell and hit his head and we spent many sad, dark days in June by his bedside at the hospital and in hospice until his death on the 25^th.

Although he was still alive on Father’s Day last year, he was in the ICU and was no longer responsive. My siblings and I had all mailed cards to him earlier that week, thinking that he was going to be all right.

But he wasn’t.

On Father’s Day, I stood by his bedside, opening each card and reading it to him while tears slid down my face. I wanted him to wake up and tell me it was all going to be okay.

But he didn’t and he couldn’t.

Later, when one of the nuns visited him in the ICU, she picked up all those cards and re-read them out loud to him. She told him he was so loved by his family and that God loved him, too. And if he was hanging on to care for his wife (our mom) who has dementia, he could let go because we were going to take good care of her.

When she called me later to tell me all this, I cried listening to her. I didn’t want dad to let go because I was being selfish – and wanted him still here with us. By that point, I knew there was very little hope and if he survived, he could no longer be the man we knew and loved.  His brain had suffered too much injury.

So I knew I didn’t want that either.

And so my dad missed Father’s Day 2016 and will miss all the Father’s Days to come. He missed his 90^th birthday by a few weeks. And he missed his 64^th wedding anniversary by a few days.

But we miss him even more. And even though mom no longer really asks about him, I know she misses him. He was her rock; the one person she knew she could count on and the one person who got her through each day.

Over the past few years, I would ask dad to come to Columbus for the weekend for whatever holiday we were celebrating because I didn’t want my parents to be alone.  They used to travel a lot and would usually be at one of our houses for every holiday. But Dad started hesitating before saying “yes” whenever I asked.

This was something he hadn’t done before and I thought he was merely being considerate of my time because I had to drive to Alliance, pick them up and then turn around and drive back to Columbus – a five hour undertaking that I would have to repeat once the weekend was over.

What I didn’t realize – until now – was how difficult it was for him to get mom out of her rocking chair and out of their house. She didn’t want to leave it. It was where she was most comfortable and where she felt most safe.

When she visited us in Columbus, there were distinct moments of real confusion. One Christmas morning she woke up thinking it was Easter and they were in a hotel. She was upset because she thought she had lost her glasses and she wanted us to call the Lost and Found to search for them.

She was talking about glasses she hadn’t worn in about 10 years.

It took over an hour for us to get mom calmed down and back to some semblance of normal. Dad said he hadn’t seen her like that before and it seemed almost more than he could handle. So I was at least glad I was here to help, but it made me realize how difficult it was sometimes for dad to care for mom.

Only he never ever complained.

It has only been in the last year since dad has been gone and mom is here with me in Columbus that I’ve realized how much work it was to care for her.

And I’m not even doing much of the work!  Mom is in a memory care unit and my only “duty” is to visit with her. Most of the time, she’s settled in her rocking chair and she’s fine. But whenever something is out of the normal routine for her – like when I have to take her to a doctor’s appointment – she asks a million questions about what we’re doing, where we’re going and why. Well, basically she asks those three questions. But she asks them over and over again – so I think it probably adds up to a million. At least.

My point is that this is what dad had to deal with when I asked the relatively simple question, “Will you and mom come to Columbus for the weekend, Dad?”

I wish I could tell him how much I appreciated what he did for mom. And what he did for all of us. That if I could be half the person he was, I’d feel like I should be fitted for those angel wings he clearly must have hidden under his light blue button down shirt. 

And I would just like to hug him one more time and tell him I love him.

So when we take the time this weekend to celebrate dads, I’ll be missing mine. But I’m grateful that I had such an honorable, good man as he to guide me through life. And even though he’s not here with us every day, I think he’s still watching out for us.

He just doesn’t have to hide those angel wings under the light blue button down shirt anymore.

I miss you and I love you. Mom and I will have a glass of wine together in your honor, okay? 

And I thank you, Dad – for everything.

Until we meet again.

It’s About the Dementia – not about the Cranberry Relish

I’m sad today. I was supposed to have lunch with my mom at Parkside Village where they were having an early Thanksgiving buffet with turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing. Probably even cranberry relish. Not that I’m a big fan of cranberry relish – but it’s an “official” Thanksgiving meal if there is cranberry relish.

But I don’t have turkey. Or mashed potatoes. Or stuffing. Or especially cranberry relish.

Why? Because when I arrive to get mom for lunch, she doesn’t want to go.

My first clue that the day isn’t going to go as planned happens before I even reach the nurse’s station. I am met by an aide who tells me how glad she is to see me.

Uh oh.

Well, it’s not that people aren’t just stinkin’ delighted to see me all the time, but that particular aide has never said that to me before.

So that is my first inkling that there is trouble afoot. She then tells me that mom refuses to get out of bed, refuses to take a shower, refuses to eat breakfast, and refuses to get dressed.

That’s a lot of refusing from a 92-year-old and, frankly, it sounds rather like a temper tantrum a 2-year-old might have let alone someone 90 years her senior.

So then and there I realize we are probably not going to see any turkey or cranberry relish today.

I mean, it’s one thing if you pop over to a friend’s house to pick her up for lunch and she has inadvertently overslept. Unless she’s your most diva-ish friend who requires 2.3 hours of hair and makeup prep time, she could probably grab a quick shower and be ready to head out the door in a few minutes.

But a 92-year-old with dementia? “Quick” is a word that will not be uttered at any time. Ever.

Cursing myself for not having prepared a back-up lunch plan like slapping together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and throwing it in my bag before leaving home, I sigh as the aide and I head down the hall to mom’s apartment.

There, we find her sitting in her rocking chair all bundled up in her flannel nightgown and blue puffy robe that has seen better days. Heck, it has seen better decades, truth be told. But mom refuses to part with it.

The aide, finding mom at least upright and out of bed, heaves a sigh of relief and leaves the room.

So I sit down in the chair across from mom and ask her if she is interested in having lunch with me as I’d made reservations and everything. But she says no.

So, sighing a little myself, I hand her the daily newspaper to read while I start “fussing.”  This is Jane-speak for gathering up old newspapers, collecting dirty coffee cups, making her bed, setting clothes out for her to (hopefully) change into, and generally making myself busy because I know I have a couple hours ahead of me of sitting in a sweltering room trying to stave off hot flashes. Which is almost impossible to do when the thermostat in there is set on “sauna.”

After about a half hour of mom constantly asking what day and time it is, I gently tease her about how late it is and coax her into getting dressed for the day. It is now a little after twelve-thirty in the afternoon.

But the sad part is, I realize that mom no longer knows how to get herself dressed and ready for the day. She looks at the clothes on her bed and then looks at me and asks me what she should do. So I tell her I’ll help her.

But seeing her like that breaks my heart a little bit more.

What happened to that strong, intelligent woman I’d known my whole life? The one who raised four children and who almost single-handedly kept my dad’s defective heart beating in his chest almost 50 years after it had wanted to give out on him in his early 40s. The one who could stretch a dollar until it cried “uncle” and the one who could tell if one of her kids was fibbing just by the inflection in their voice when she asked them a question. And this was, mind you, when she wasn’t even in the same room as the fibber.

I then thought about mom in her later years – the woman who loved meeting new people and who couldn’t wait to pack a suitcase to go on their next adventure. Whether it was to some exotic location or an Elderhostel at a university to learn something new – or simply to head to one of their grown children’s homes for a visit – she was the first to suggest a road trip because she couldn’t stand sitting still for too long.

And now I couldn’t get her to walk down the hall with me simply to have some lunch.

After I help mom get dressed and I hang her ratty blue robe in the closet, we sit down again – mom in her rocking chair and me in the upright purple chair across from her. I look at this once proud and dignified woman who now can’t even get herself dressed and I try to keep the sadness from my face.  She looks up at me and raises her hands in supplication and says, “Now what?”

I smile at her gently – and this time we both sigh.

After a while, I start gathering my things and I tell mom I have to leave to run some errands. I hug and kiss her goodbye and tell her I love her.

She asks me when I am coming back and I tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. At 2 o’clock.

She can no longer tell that I’m fibbing.

Because, you see, I don’t know if I’ll be back tomorrow at 2 o’clock, but it appeases mom to have me say it. She won’t know the difference if I show up at 1 o’clock or at 3 o’clock. Or if I don’t show up at all until the following day.

But I blow her a kiss as I head out the door. And, because she can hold on to this thought for another fleeting moment, she quickly says, “I’ll see you tomorrow at 2 o’clock, dear.”

And when I shut the door, it’s all I can do not to start crying as I walk down that long hallway to the nurse’s station and then out to my car.

And, oh, how I wish the tears were because I didn’t get any cranberry relish today.

How Lucky I Am.

I was cleaning out the refrigerator this morning wondering how it could possibly get so dirty so quickly.  Feels like I just cleaned it out the other day. 

In truth, it was probably six months ago, but, y’know, time goes fast.  Especially when you’re doing things you looove – like scrubbing the interior of the fridge.

Yeah, I’m fibbing.  I’d have to be insane to actually enjoy cleaning out the fridge. 

Oh, that’s not nice.  I suppose there is someone out there who enjoys performing those sorts of tasks.  The only enjoyment I get out of it is when it’s done.  Well, that – and when I open the fridge later and am pleasantly surprised by how clean and orderly it is.

But, anyway, I was thinking as I was donning those lovely yellow rubber gloves and dunking my hands in the hot, soapy water, that I’m actually lucky. 

I’m lucky that I can still get the dirt out of both the lowest drawers and the highest shelves in the fridge.  I’m lucky that I have the strength to scrub the parts that need scrubbing. I’m lucky to have the dexterity to pull the glass shelves out and carefully clean them without breaking the glass.

And, even though my vision is far from 20/20, I am lucky to still be able to see every speck of dirt and mysterious splotch of gunk that is in that fridge – and I have the ability to clean it.

Hunh.  Who knew there were reasons to feel lucky about cleaning a fridge?

I suppose I feel luckier to be able to do these sorts of mundane tasks when I realize how many people out there are unable to perform them. 

Like a friend on Facebook who is wheelchair-bound. She recently posted that she dropped a bag of chips onto the floor – and was unable to pick them up.  I loved that she kept her sense of humor and said it was probably a hint that she shouldn’t be eating the chips! 

But it made me realize that if I drop something on the floor and make a mess, instead of being annoyed, I should feel fortunate that I am still able to crawl around on the floor to clean it up.

Guess I’d better make a note and remind myself of that the next time I knock over that mega-sized bag of basmati rice, as I did recently. Instead of the, um, choice words I actually used, I should instead have been muttering, “I’m lucky…I’m lucky…I’m soooo lucky!”

I think we all tend to take our health and abilities for granted and only realize how fortunate we were when those things are gone. 

Take, for example, my parents who recently spent nearly a week with us here in Columbus. We celebrated my mother’s 90^th birthday, although she doesn’t remember she’s 90.  Or perhaps she just conveniently forgot that little fact on purpose. Who knows? It’s hard to tell with Mom who has been dealing with Alzheimer’s for the past several years. 

One moment, she will seem like her old self and will carry on an intelligent conversation, and the next moment, she is whispering under her breath about how confused and scared she is.  Each and every time she does the latter, my heart breaks a little more for her.

I try to give her a reassuring hug and casually repeat whatever fact she can’t remember and is stressing over, whether it’s where she left her purse or how old her granddaughter is. But I try to fit it into the conversation so she doesn’t know I’ve heard her.

Mom still tries to pretend she’s that strong, sharp, eagle-eyed woman who never missed a thing.  I’m not sure she realizes how much she has changed or how noticeable it is to the rest of us. 

But no matter what, I try to keep in mind that she is the woman who has loved me my entire life. Who took care of me when I was a baby and didn’t know how to dress or walk or speak.  And when I was confused or frustrated over a simple task like tying my shoes, she was the person who clarified and explained and instructed. She never made me feel stupid for not knowing something.  And she encouraged me every step of the way.  So if I can do those things for her now and still allow her to maintain her dignity, then I am honored to do so.

And then there is my dad.  His macular degeneration has progressed to the point that we wonder how much he actually sees.  He does a great job of pretending around us because, I suspect, he doesn’t want us to intervene and mandate that he and Mom move to an Assisted Living facility. 

He’s much more comfortable in the house they’ve lived in for nearly 50 years. He knows without looking where the silverware and glasses are stored. He knows exactly where in the fridge the milk resides. And he doesn’t have to figure out which remote operates the television and which button mutes the commercials. On the other hand, our complicated system with three different remotes confuses him.

But, to be fair, they confuse me, too. So it’s not necessarily about age or diminishing vision.

Yet, Dad cannot see the dirt in the refrigerator shelves or the mysterious splotch of gunk at the bottom of the vegetable drawer – so my sister and I surreptitiously clean it when he’s not around. 

Or I off-handedly mention that I’m doing laundry and will wash his sweater that has stains from food that fell off his fork at dinner the night before. When he does laundry, he cannot see the spots requiring pre-treatment, so their clothes come out of the dryer still stained. And to see my once-dignified, capable, and always-in-control parents wearing stained clothing makes me so sad.

So, yes, I’m lucky that I can still scrub a tub or clean the floor or wash the inside of the fridge.  I’m lucky that I can do laundry and our clothes are clean and (relatively) free of permanent stains. And I’m lucky that I still know how old my niece is or where I left my purse – even if I sometimes have those brief lapses when I forget where I left my keys.

Ah, but doesn't it look clean and organized?!

Aging happens to the best of us, despite every attempt we make at staying young. So today, especially, I’m reminding myself that I am lucky.  I may not wake up full of energy and completely pain-free (and unwrinkled) as I did in my younger years, but I woke up capable of accomplishing most of the things on my to-do list.  

Well, except perhaps the one thing on my list. Replacing the burned out light bulb in the 15 foot ceiling in the living room might just be beyond my capabilities today. But, hey, I never claimed to be Superwoman!

And instead of sighing as I haul yet another load of clothes from the dryer to the bedroom to fold and hang and put away, I am taking a moment to look at the canvas print in my laundry room that reads: “Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.”

Hmmm.  Truer words…

So however you spend your day, take time to appreciate and enjoy it. For these ARE the big things. 

And, yes, even the cleaning out the fridge thing. 

Mother's Day 2015

First off, Happy Mother’s Day to all you moms out there. That includes birth mothers, adoptive mothers, mothers-to-be, step-mothers, foster mothers, mothers-in-law, and women who are like mothers. 

Heck, I should probably also include any single dads out there who have tackled both mom and dad duties. You have to give credit to a guy who can assemble a decent braid on his little girl’s head without it looking like a hot mess.

I’m sure I’m forgetting a category or two, but perhaps I can just include “and anyone else I may have missed,” which is kind of like the verbiage on job descriptions that gives employers free reign to tack on extra duties whenever they feel like it. 

Anyway, the point is, I wish all those special women out there an extra happy day on Sunday.  Yours is a job that is worth a fortune, but pays in strictly non-monetary ways throughout the years – from the infant tightly gripping your finger during feeding time, to the countless hugs and kisses you’ve been given, and from being the first person your child wants to show their masterpiece drawing or A+ test score to the first person your adult children want to call when something good – or bad – happens to them.

Sure, you’ve been given lots of Mother’s Day presents as a reward for all your hard work.

But you cherish the tiny handprint Mother’s Day plaque you received when your child was a toddler as much as the elaborate flower arrangement you received once your child grows up. (Oh, and don’t tell FTD, but she may appreciate the handprint Mother’s Day plaque just a tiny bit more.)

 But no matter how heartfelt our handmade creations are or how much money we spend on mom, those gifts can never repay her what we owe her for the love and devotion she has given in raising us.

Interestingly, she doesn’t expect gifts or monetary rewards. It was simply her job and a role she cherished.  (Well, maybe not so much the stinky diaper changes or the spitting up thing. She probably could've done without those.)

Yes, I realize that I’m looking only at the positive role models and I recognize that there are mothers out there who probably never should have been mothers. But I have been fortunate to have known so many women who were and are wonderful, loving mothers. So this is my tribute to them.

Sadly, I never got to add the title of “mom” to my own name. But I’m a pretty decent aunt and I have been fortunate enough to hold lots of friends’ and relatives’ babies over the years. And I was a heckuva babysitter when I was young, so I’ve changed my share of stinky diapers and dealt with the spitting up thing. But, even better, I got to experience that feeling of an infant tightly gripping my finger during feeding time. And I’ve been given lots of hugs and kisses by little ones. And many of my friends’ kids know me as “Aunt Jane.”  So I’m not complaining.  Technically, I’m even a step-mom to three grown children, although there was never the need to “parent” them. I just hope that they somehow know I care about them and wish them all the best as they go through this life.

 

So, while I don’t know firsthand what it’s like to be a mom, I am fortunate that I still have my own mom here to thank for all she’s done for me. I can tell her that I love her.  And I hope she knows how very grateful I am to have been her daughter.

But I don’t know that she does anymore. My mother, you see, is dealing with dementia or Alzheimer’s. Whichever it is, it is a devastating illness and my mom is not the same woman I’ve known my entire life.

Yes, I’m very grateful to still have her here with us. I’m grateful that I can call her every week and she still knows who I am. Every week she asks about Vince and calls him by name.  But sometimes, toward the end of the conversation, she might say, “…and give our love to your dear husband,” which makes me wonder if she has temporarily forgotten his name.  

And I wonder when that memory lapse might become permanent. Which makes me so sad, I can hardly bear to think about it.

Our conversations are mostly one-sided these days with me giving her a recitation of our activities. Mom’s responses are usually of the, “Oh, my…” and “you’ve been busy” variety. Her contribution to the conversation is usually to ask about the weather, and she may ask three or four times. Just as she may ask a half dozen times what day of the week it is.

I always answer her with patience and love. I figure that she spent years doing the same when I was young, so it’s my chance to return the favor. I’m sure there were times when she grew a bit weary when her children went through the “How come?” and “But, why?” phase in which we repeatedly asked the same questions. Yet she somehow answered all our questions, which allowed us to move on to the next stage in our growth and development.

Mom still reads the newspaper every day, except that she may re-read the same article numerous times.  Very often she reads it aloud, which means we have to state our comments over and over again as if we’d never said them the first time.  Mom has a difficult time with any changes to their day-to-day routine, so she relies on Dad for everything. And it scares us to think what will happen if our dad leaves this earth before our mom.

My mom was a formidable woman when we were young. Yeah, all five feet, two inches of her. She was intelligent and opinionated – and Mom was pretty much always right. (Back then we thought she merely told us she was always right. Years later I have come to realize…she pretty much was always right.) 

But you didn’t cross her. She had a bit of an Irish temper and we knew not to misbehave or we’d suffer the consequences.

She was not our friend or our buddy. I don’t understand it when people today say their mom is their best friend. Sure, when kids are older, I kind of get it. But “in my day” (uh oh - soundin' like an old person here!), mothers were mothers and not friends. There was a definite hierarchy in the relationship that can’t really be present with best friends.

Believe me, we knew who was boss.  We sometimes behaved out of fear more than out of merely doing what was right. But through that method, we learned the difference between right and wrong and soon we didn’t need the fear part. We just did what was right because we knew it was the proper thing to do.

We also learned very quickly that mom was not the maid. And if we ever forgot that little tidbit, she made sure to tell us.  Emphatically.

Even when we were very young, we had chores to do around the house and we were responsible for our own belongings. Thus, the family room was never cluttered with toys and there was an order to our lives. One of my chores was vacuuming, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t like vacuuming back then because I still don’t like doing it now. (This is where Vince pipes in with, “When do you ever vacuum now?!”) But those lessons learned at a young age have helped me throughout my life.  And I’m happy that I don’t live in a messy home where I’d be afraid to have a friend drop by unexpectedly.

So I grew up in a different time and a different place. Parenting back then was different than it is today. I’m not saying it was better back then, but I definitely think there are pros and cons to each generation’s methods. 

But no matter the era or the method, a mother’s love is constant – and that has never changed.

There are so many times I wish I could still call Mom when something good – or bad – happens. When I want her congratulations or commiserations. When I am sick or need a pep talk, mom is the first person I think of to call. But I usually can’t do that these days as I don’t want to upset her. 

But I do take comfort in the fact that I can hug her whenever I see her. So many people I know have lost their mothers and dearly wish they could give their moms just one more hug. So I know I'm lucky.  

I get choked up and teary-eyed when Mom holds me extra tight before she heads off to bed and she whispers that she loves me. Mom grew up in a generation where you didn't just routinely say the words, "I love you." We were simply supposed to know that we were loved. And we did...but it is good to hear the words now and again. That she tells me how she feels now is even more poignant. I keep trying to store up those hugs and words and feelings, as I know that there will come a time in the not-too-distant future when she won't be able to say them.

Yet I miss those lively conversations I had with her once I grew up and didn’t need the lectures anymore. Jane-the-pacifist would even take one of her great debates – something Mom relished. I pretty much thought they were just arguments, and I knew I’d never win one of those with her. But if it meant that Mom was healthy again, I'd gladly participate in one of those discussions.

So while I miss being able to call my mother and ask for her opinion or advice, I know that I’ve been fortunate to have had her for as long as I have. And, because of her earlier guidance, I pretty much know what course I should take anyway. 

And I thank God for her every day. 

And, Mom?  While you’ll never read this blog (and would be appalled that I’m even talking about you in the first place!), I wish you a very Happy Mother’s Day. I love you - more than words or a bouquet of flowers - can say.

My Aunt Ethel

I tried to write a blog last night that was silly or irreverent or hopefully somewhat amusing…but I couldn’t. I didn’t get farther than keying in the date, which is my first step in writing a blog. It’s easier that way because I’m not staring at a completely white screen and a blinking cursor that seems to mock me for not being able to come up with a title, let alone an entire blog.

So why couldn’t I write a blog last night? Well, because I was sad. And I still am. You see, my Aunt Ethel died the other day. It wasn’t unexpected, but that doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

When I first heard the news, I didn’t cry or react much, which is hard to believe given that I’m this overly sensitive and emotional-type person. (A cringe-worthy statement to hear if you’re a guy. Thank goodness Vince can deal. Either that – or he didn’t know that side of me until it was too late!)

Anyway, I think I didn’t cry right away because Aunt Ethel had been in the end-stages of Alzheimer’s. She didn’t speak and didn’t recognize us when we saw her in June. So it’s easy to say it was a blessing that the Lord took her. Her suffering is over.

But then the realization hit that this woman – who graced our lives for about 84 years – is gone forever. My mom lost her only sister. And I know how much she mourns her loss.

As one of my cousins said when she heard the news, “It’s like the end of an era.” And that is true. On that side of the family, my mom is about the only one of her generation left.

In fact, my parents’ generation is quickly losing members of a special fraternity and, with their passing, we’re losing an incredible group of people. Or, as Tom Brokaw called them in his book: “The Greatest Generation.”

Coincidentally, I’m reading Brokaw’s book with that very title at this very moment. Well, not this very moment, since I’m writing at this very moment. But, you know what I mean.

Another cousin recommended the book to me, so I borrowed it from the library. And I’m finding it very enlightening. I always thought my parents were unique in their views about life and money and patriotism and family. But reading the stories in the book about the men and women who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, I discovered that my parents’ behaviors, attributes and values were intrinsic to their generation.

When I was a kid, I thought we were poor. I mean, I knew we weren’t destitute, but I didn’t think we had a lot of money either. In truth, my dad had a pretty good job as a metallurgical engineer. And my mom was fortunate not to have to work while we were younger. Sure, she could have. She’d worked as a registered nurse before she had children. But people of their generation thought it was important to have a parent stay home and raise their children, which is a whole other blog for a whole other day.

But I digress.

See, I thought we didn’t have a lot of money because we were not allowed to waste anything. If an apple or a banana had a bruise or a black spot, we either had to eat around it or cut off the bad part. Vince would laugh at this statement – because now I crinkle my noise and make a frowny face if he offers me an overripe banana. “Yuck,” I’ll say. “It’s mushy!”

Back when I was a kid, my mom would simply respond, “It’s fine. Eat it.”

Blecch. But I ate it. Back when I was a kid. You know what I say now? I say that it’s good to be an adult and not have to eat mushy bananas.

When I was a kid, I hardly ever saw my mother tear a new piece of aluminum foil from the roll because she reused every single scrap. She’d take a sponge and wipe off any food particles, and then would carefully fold that by-now soft piece of foil and place it in the drawer. And woe to the child who used a piece of foil and then balled it up and tossed it in the trash! After we received the obligatory lecture, Mom would likely pull it out of the trash, smooth it out, and fold it up neatly and put it back in the drawer.

And if I ever walked out of a room to, say, go to the bathroom, I’d come back to find the room dark. Apparently, we had an Energy Fairy in our home who magically turned off lights that weren’t in use for approximately 45 seconds. The funny thing is, I never EVER saw that Energy Fairy. What did my parents do? Did they have some weird Spidey-sense that someone had left a light on somewhere in the house and they’d spring into action? They’d climb the walls to our bedroom on the second floor, flick the switch to the “off” position and then fly back downstairs – all before I had time to flush the toilet? It was weird.

But my parents – and others of their generation – knew what it was like to go without. When they were young, they saw people who had lost their jobs and their homes and didn’t have welfare or unemployment to live on while they found another job so they could pay the bills. Even if their parents hadn’t lost their jobs and their homes, the time in which they were raised left a huge impression on them.

So they didn’t waste money on new rolls of aluminum foil and they didn’t want to send a single penny more to the electric company than they absolutely had to. And in our family of six (four of whom were not paying the electric bill), they had to be extra diligent.

When I grew up and was living on my own, I’d leave every light on in the place – just because I could. And I’d ball up a piece of foil after one use – just because I could.

And then I got a little older and a little wiser and realized that my parents weren’t total flakes. Why waste the electricity? I didn’t, after all, enjoy sending my hard-earned cash to AEP. And why fill up our landfills with balled up pieces of aluminum foil and all the other stuff that our generation started tossing out without much thought?

Now we have recycling bins and energy conservation and composts in our backyards. And the funny thing is, my generations and subsequent generations all think they discovered recycling.

So the Greatest Generation lost another member the other day. I know how hard that is going to be on my mom. I know my uncle is missing his wife of 60 years. And I know how sad my cousins must be because they’ve lost their mom. I pray for strength for them as they mourn her passing.

As for me, well, I’m going to have my moments of sadness, too. But I’m going to remember all the fun times we’d spend with my aunt and uncle and cousins on our way back from Cape Cod through my growing-up years. I’ll laugh when I recall the time my Aunt Mary got my mom, Aunt Ethel and Nanna a little tipsy on Southern Comfort. I will be grateful that Vince was able to meet Aunt Ethel before her illness rendered her incapable of communication.

And I will be grateful for all the life lessons that she – and other members of her generation – taught us. May her soul and the souls of all the saints rest in God's peace, and may light perpetual shine upon them.