Saying Goodbye: The Beginning of the End

So.

The Queen Mother is not doing so well.

Really, really, not well.

As in, it's past time for me to just get a grip, and admit that she will be gone soon.

It's just that... sometimes I still can't believe the woman lying there in that bed is my mom.

My Mom.

My Mom was always so full of life and energy and spit and vinegar and ornery, ornery, ornery-ness.

And love.

Even today there was a glimmer. When I got ready to go and I leaned over to hug her – to hold those wispy, fragile, bony shoulders – and to kiss her cheek and press the side of my face to hers, and to tell her “I love you,” it was there.

Her eyes found mine for just a moment.

“I love.”

A breathy whisper.

My heart broke, even as it filled to overflowing.

I realize that I only knew a part of her, knew her only for one segment of time. I realize that other peoples' memories and interactions with her were different than mine. But she was... is... my Mom. We weren't “Gilmore Girls” crazy (although we had our moments), or BFF's. She's my Mom.

My hero.

My role model.

Sitting at her bedside, watching her breath, wondering what she's seeing that's just beyond my sight, my mind swirls with memories and my heart fills with emotion.

Even when she became “confused” she was still Mom.

“She's good at faking it, ” I told a friend, “You could stop in to visit her and ask 'Do you remember me?' and she'll smile and say 'Of course'.”

“She was a good Midwesterner,” he said, smiling.

What a wonderful description! She was! She is a good Midwesterner.

“She always had a smile and a kind word for everyone,” said a different friend years ago.  I'm sure there are those who would disagree with that assessment, but for the most part, it's true. This was even before Mom got confused, when it was just too hard to get her in and out of the car to take her all the places she would have loved to go, to see people she would have loved to see.

The staff at the nursing home said the same thing. She was always smiling, always teasing. Just today the Hospice nurse, who has only been visiting for a couple of weeks, said that when she asked Mom how she was feeling, Mom would say she was fine and then ask “How are you?”

Do I remember to do that? Do I listen to the answers?

She was always willing to help. She helped coach my little league softball team. She became our super-support speech mom/one-woman cheer squad when I was in high school. She became a 4-H leader for our neighbor kids – long after I had aged out of the group!

She was part of a core group of ladies who took care of dinners at the church. There is nothing as polarizing, as potentially explosive as the politics of church basement ladies. Forget everything the talking heads on TV tell you as we head into another election year. If any politician – ANY politician – ever says “I helped serve dinners in the church basement” forget about religious affiliation and elect that person. Immediately.

After all those years of (church) basement politics, serving on the city council was the next logical step for Mom. She pictured herself a champion for the city workers, and was so proud to become Mayor Pro-Tem. How many people shun taking this type of responsibility, shy away from getting involved (myself included)?

Of course there's a fine line between getting involved and being a busy body. I think she stayed on the straight and narrow. Although, again, everyone will have their own opinion.

And she knew that, too. She knew that sometimes people tried to do the right thing, or at least do what they thought was the right thing. Even if she didn't agree with them, she recognized that their heart was in the right place.

Her heart was in the right place.

I just hope mine is too.

Even though it's breaking right now.

I love you, Mom.

Jacks And Better

I saw a package of Jacks by the checkout counter at the craft store the other day and I had to smile.

That simple, classic kids' toy reminded me of the stories Mom and her cousin Eloise used to tell about when they were little girls. They were distant cousins but since the families got together so often, and Eloise was an only child while Mom had just one older brother, the two girls were much closer than most cousins. Eloise was at all our family gatherings – she and Mom rotated hosting duties for the holidays – and I always thought of her as Aunt Eloise.

The two of them told me of the hours and hours they spent playing Jacks. They talked about “onsies” and “twosies,” how to bounce the ball just the right way -- once, twice, or not at all. And always – always – they remembered “the concrete sidewalk was so hot on our little, bare legs!”

And they laughed.

They laughed so hard and smiled so much at the memories that I figured Jacks must be the most fun game in the entire world. So I would run to get my over-sized set of plastic Jacks and I'd go outside to sit on the big, flat square of concrete between the sidewalk and our front stairs. I sat out there practicing for what seemed like hours and hours, bouncing and grabbing, scraping my knuckles raw on the concrete, sweating as the sun beat down on me, feeling the hot concrete burning the backs of my little, bare legs.

Mom and Eloise would watch from the cool shade of the front porch, where they sat gently swaying on the porch swing. Dinner was over, the dishes were done, there was nothing to do but visit until it was time to serve dessert.

They would occasionally offer up advice, or chastise me for cheating. (Is it really cheating if you're playing by yourself?) Every once in a while, if my offenses were particularly greivious, one of them would kneel down beside me and show me the right way to do it.

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” they would say as they struggled to stand up again, girdle and nylons, high heels, age and gravity conspiring against them.

And they would erupt into laughter all over again.

The memory of that laughter warmed me as I stood there at the store, weighing the pros and cons of an impulse buy. A surprise gift for Mom.

“Remember when you and Eloise used to play Jacks, when you were little girls?” I would ask.

But....

But... what if she didn't remember? What would I do if she looked at me with that sweet, placid smile and just shrugged her shoulders?

I've lost so much of her already. I couldn't take loosing any more.

And so I put the package back on the hook.

But....

But... the stories, the laughter, the kneeling in polyester skirts and nylons and heels and struggling to get back up, those are my memories.

So I bought the Jacks.

And that night as I sat on the kitchen floor, the cool of the linoleum tile chilling my (not so little or bare) legs, I practiced the bouncing and the grabbing, calling out “onsies” and “twosies.”

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” I said to the cat as I struggled to stand up again, achy knees and hips, age and gravity conspiring against me.

And I smiled, knowing that through the telling and sharing, memories can live on and on.

Be Good for Goodness Sake (Or Not)

The Queen Mother has always had a bit of an ornery streak. So I shouldn't have been surprised by her conversation with Santa at the nursing home Christmas party this afternoon.

“Dorothy, have you been a good girl this year?” Santa asked.

“Nope.”

That's my mom.

Santa was momentarily taken aback. He didn't immediately re-check his naughty/nice, but there was definitely a split-second of speechlessness. This 89-year-old, wheelchair-bound, white-cotton-candy-haired, quiet, gentle lady just told Santa she hasn't been a good girl this year?

Who would expect such honesty with Christmas looming on the horizon? Who would expect such truthfulness with a sleigh-full of goodies hanging in the balance? Who would expect such a midwest-candid “nope” delivered straight to Santa's rosey-cheeked face while he is still clutching her present in his gloved hand?

Me. I would. Yup. That's my mom.

After they recovered from the initial shock, everyone at our table had a good chuckle. None more so than The Queen Mother herself.

I laughed too, although I was more than a little disapointed in Santa's timing.

You see, Santa stole my speaking role. The Queen Mother and I have our set patter -- our little shtick -- and he horned in on my part. Each time I leave after a visit we go through the same routine: I kiss her cheek, hug her and squeeze her hand. I tell her “I love you. I'll be back soon. Be good.”

She wrinkles up her nose, sticks out her tongue and laughs.

So I squeeze her hand, hug her again, kiss her cheek and whisper “Be good. I love you.”

The second time I usually get a begrudging “I'll try,” accompanied with an exaggerated sigh and an eye-roll that rivals that of my teen-age daughter for theatricality.

Such drama begs my rejoinder: “Good, because someone has to do it, and it's not gonna be me!”

We do mix it up occasionally. Sometimes I'll tell her “No dancing on the tables!” This never fails to get us a strange look from whichever unexpecting nursing assistant is within earshot. Not that The Queen Mother ever danced on a tabletop (that I know of), and neither have I (that I remember). Although there was that one time she balanced the empty tortilla chip bowl on her head....

Sometimes she beats me to the punch and she tells me to be good. Then I get to deliver the world-weary sigh, roll my eyes and whine “Well, I'm so busy I guess I won't have time to get in trouble.”

The curtain call is always the same: One more hug, one more hand squeeze, one more kiss.

I pause in the doorway for one more goodbye. One more glance at this familiar stranger.

I search for that spark of orneriness that is my mom.

Her eyes shine. She is still there.

One more “I love you.”

Don't behave.

A Little Something for the Birthday Queen

The Queen Mother was 72 when my little Princess was born. Mom started slowing down soon after that, so the “Gramma” my kids know is a different person than the “Mom” I remember. I love my mom, and I'm lucky to still have her, but sometimes I just wish she had her old spark. That's why I tell my kids stories like this about the person I wish they could have met.

When I was a sophomore in college Dad died. Mom found ways to keep herself busy, and increased her visits to me and my brothers, who lived in nearby towns. I went to a small college, where pretty much everyone knew everyone else – and their parents. I was lucky enough to live in the dorm with the same group of girls all four years. When I say Mom visited me, I really mean she visited all five of us.

Visiting parents were always a big hit on campus because they meant we got real food! I don't think anyone's parents ever managed to have a private dinner out with just their own student. We were a pack, and we hunted like a pack, always finagling to bring a friend to dinner with us. Even if the visit didn't include a meal, it usually included a trip to the grocery store (with goodies to be shared among the pack) or maybe even homemade cookies!

Mom had access to UPS pick up where she worked, so she was a great one for sending cookies. Our mail was delivered to tiny post office boxes in the dorm's main lobby. If you received a package larger than a matchbox, you had to ask the front desk worker to get it for you. It was impossible to keep cookies a secret (and all boxes were assumed to contain cookies)! Mom wouldn't have wanted me to hoard them, either. She made cookies to be shared.

I know she took us out to eat several times, but there's one dinner in particular that I will never forget. My friends and I met Mom at this little Mexican restaurant in a town that was no more than a blip on the road between home and school. El Charro's was just this side of rundown, but they had the tastiest Americanized-Mexican food around, the servings were huge, and the prices were low. The tables didn't match, the chairs didn't match, the plates didn't match, the utensils didn't match, the plastic glasses were scratched and didn't match, and the chips and salsa were the best I've ever had. And they were always crowded.

It was a long(ish), narrow restaurant, just wide enough for the bar and a single row of tables. A few more tables filled in the open space between the end of the bar and the kitchen. After a short wait the six of us managed to grab one of the tables across from the bar. People stood behind people sitting at the bar, leaving a narrow path for the waitress (she must have been 105, but was as spry as a 25-year-old), who dashed from the kitchen to the front of the restaurant and back again.

With six of us, and the kitchen struggling to keep up with the orders, it didn't take long for us to finish off our chips and salsa. We tried several times to get the waitress' attention, but she flashed by so quickly it was impossible.

That is, until Mom balanced the empty chip bowl on her head.

Whoosh, the waitress was there, whoosh she was gone, and whoosh we had a full bowl of chips! We were all laughing so hard we could hardly eat them.

I don't remember anything else about that night, but I can still see Mom sitting there with that woven wood bowl perched on her curly, grey-haired head, behaving like nothing was out of the ordinary.

A quick Google search turned up a source for those “retro” bowls. I may have to put one on my Christmas list. Maybe I'll take it out and balance it on my head if I ever need a reminder of how things used to be.