People I Know: My Mother

I'm starting a new writing project: people I know. Here's the first installment:

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My mother’s eyes glisten across the room. Cat green and softened by age, they look at me pleadingly.

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“Do you think I could go home?” she asks in her most genteel voice. She raises both hands in front of her, the way politicians do during a heartfelt speech, as if to confirm she is reasonable and solid. Her eyes shine and deepen.

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“I know I can’t be alone,” she says, “but could we find someone to live with me?”

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“Mom”, I say, “I don’t think so.” Often I pause and hope there is no need to continue. But most times her eyes only deepen more. Her voice is hopeful, not at all forceful. “Could you tell me why not?” she asks politely.

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Whether she is well or sick, settled or bereft, my mother’s eyes—actually her whole face-- show ninety two years worth of the courage and grace she has perfected since she, the youngest of sixteen children, first came to America from Canada, first walked into a classroom where she did not know the language or the country.

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“Mom, we could visit your house for a weekend. You could see your friend Dottie, and Marie next door. You could sleep in your bed,” I pause and smile, “but you have to promise me you’ll come back with me.”

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She grins. “I might not,” she says.

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“Mom, if you hold on to the kitchen counter when it’s time to leave I will call the police,” I say firmly.

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She grins again. “No, I know,” she says. “Besides, what would I do there by myself?”
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So it came to pass that on the last weekend in September, my mother returned home. She cautiously pushed her walker up the front steps, opened the door and stepped into her hallway. “Oh it’s good to be home,” she sighed. From room to room she assimilated the unfamiliar walker into the familiar landscape.

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She opened her kitchen cabinets, showed JB where the pot was for tea, and sat at the kitchen table as if she had never left. As if it had not been fourteen months since she had left. As if she had not been in rehab, as if she had not learned to walk with an assistive device, as if her loss of memory meant not one damn thing.

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She looked ten years younger. She acted and spoke with mastery, guiding her hands effortlessly toward the right dishes and acting surprised when something seemed out of place. Then she looked at my dog Stella, who had come along for the weekend, and said, “Karen, how long have I been gone?”

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“Fourteen months,” I replied.

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“Did I leave my dog alone here all that time?”

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We are all silent before I respond. "Mom, this is Stella. My dog. You know Stella,” I said.

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A light bulb went off. She shook her head sheepishly. “Of course I do, she said, “My memory’s getting worse. But at least it’s only my memory. My mind is still good.”

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That night I slept on the couch so she would not be afraid or unsafe when she woke up and didn’t know where she was. Four times in all I heard her and jumped up to assure her safe passage to and from the bathroom. The first time she called out ‘hello’, and when she saw me she breathed a sigh of relief.

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“Where am I?” she asked. I said, “Mom, you’re in your own house,” and she said, “I must be pretty confused not to know that.” Even in the dim hall, her eyes sparkled. She kissed me goodnight and asked me if I needed anything.

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We did a similar version of this three more times with variations: once she thought she still lived there, once she didn’t know where ‘there’ was, and once she just reminded me how lucky she was to sleep so well.

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I grew up in this very house. My father and grandfather built it together and my parents lived in it for 63 years before my father died. My mother always said she would never leave it alive and at age 91 she almost pulled it off. But she fell one summer day in her front yard and broke her hip. By the time the rehab folks met up with her, she was too frail and too confused to get anything close to an endorsement that she could live alone. She moved in with JB and me for a few months, just to be sure, and finally, reluctantly, she took up residence in a furnished room in a sweet local rest home ten minutes away from my sweet local family home.

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I took my mother home that weekend with obvious concern that it might do more harm than good. She was doing her best to accept the rest home. “You know I’m not a complainer” she told me daily, and she was right, but those green eyes told the whole story. She would never adjust. She could not remember anyone there. She was the literal stranger in a strange land.

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Her first morning home, my mother woke up at 8 o’clock. She stuck her head in the living room and looked at me. “You won’t believe this,” she said, “but I’m not going to mind going back.”

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Wow.

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“How come, Mom?” I asked.

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“I don’t know”, she chuckled, “But we probably shouldn’t question it.”

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And indeed, she didn’t mind going back. She spent two days sipping tea at her kitchen table, Dottie’s daughter brought her by for coffee cake and they talked about the card group, Marie stopped by four times and they hugged for the first time ever, and she continued to tell JB and me where to find things. For those two days my mother ruled the universe. But that’s not all.

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She returned to her furnished room in the local rest home and settled in. She started playing solitaire again. She asked me to order cable tv. She read the newspaper. She complimented the food.

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“Mom” I said, “What happened when you went home? How come you’re happier since then?”

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“kj,” she said. “you know I never complain. That’s why. Besides, It’s nice to live near you. My memory doesn’t work but I know I still have my mind.”

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A few days later I asked my mother if she remembered going home.

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“Not really,”, she smiled. "But I think I enjoyed it.”

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“Yes, Mom, you did. If you want we’ll do it again in a few months.”

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“We’ll see,” she said. “it’s kind of a long ride, isn’t it?”