Thanksgiving Blues

Jim & Pat's beautiful table at Thanksgiving

It's another year of Thanksgiving finding me full of mixed emotions, aware that looking backwards and feeling sad is so much easier than looking forwards and feeling hopeful.

This was the first Thanksgiving since my parents moved back north that I did not spend with my Mother. We will be seeing her today when my family does their day-late Thanksgiving celebration on Long Island. But Thanksgiving proper was spent with my husband's family in the city, a small quiet dinner with just two families (and our nephew's lovely girlfriend).

They live up high in the sky, on the top floor of their tall apartment building, and from a south facing wall of windows there is a clear cityscape view with the Chrysler Building standing out, central to it all.

The Chrysler Building is deeply significant to my mother, her favorite building in the whole world. She loves art Deco and it is a supreme example of that architectural style.  Whenever we came to events at Jim & Pat's (and we have for many many occasions since I've joined my husband's family) my parents were always invited, and my mother always seated opposite this window where her view of the Chrysler Building would be unobstructed. And she never ceased to wonder, marvel at the view.

One thing my mother has never been accused of is being unappreciative, ungrateful. She would thank Jim and Pat profusely every time she came over, would spend much time looking out over the city she loved, watching the skyscape shift from day to night, giddy in her good fortune at being invited for such a view.

And last night, every time I looked out the window and watched the Chrysler Building shining back at me, the unbidden thought kept welling up: "Mom should be sitting here, seeing this. And she likely never again will."

Two years ago, the first Thanksgiving without my father and Dan's mother was flat out hard. Last year, still, there such a sense of missing people, of present ghosts.

Three years ago, Thanksgiving day was the last time my father ever entered my home, and it was clear, that day, he was fading fast.

And now my mother is slip sliding away too; though slowly, so very slowly.

This may be her last Thanksgiving. It may not. We spin the big wheel and see where the fates take us. Either way, we're along for a bumpy ride.

I hate striding into the holiday season hand in hand with this melancholia. I long for simple good cheer. But that's not how life sits with me right now.

So I strive to feel grateful for the little things, those shiny moments, amidst the gloaming.

Shortly we will pile into our ancient but still serviceable car, drive out to Long Island to pick up my mother and take her to family, to the heart and hearth of her brother's nearby home.

It won't be the Chrysler Building, but it will more than do.

The Fading

My mother was mostly very happy to see me today, but still, there were moments when the tears welled up, overtook her.

"I'm so lonely" she says. And I have nothing to offer. "I miss your father so much. He wasn't just my husband, he was my best friend." All I can do is hold her hand, murmur that I miss him too, pass her a tissue from the ever present box, to dry her tears.

Physically, she is in good shape; remarkably good shape for all she has been through and the state of her noisy, glitchy heart.

But I am losing her, bit by bit.

Moment to moment she is still herself, her eyes clear, her hand gripping mine in gratitude for my visit. We talk, we laugh.

And yet the dementia is visible everywhere. Her short term memory, bad for years, is now gone. Completely gone. And the long term memories are slip-sliding into the vast ocean of forgetfulness too.

I tell her of Simon's impending visit and instead of excited she looks quizzical. "Who is he again, now?"

"Your grandson." I tell her. "Bruce's son."

"Oh. How nice!"

And not two minutes later.

"Who is coming to see me?"

"Your grandson Simon." I call up his picture on my phone thinking that will help trigger memories.

Simon

"Oh, yes," she says, "such a handsome boy!"

But then after a mere moment, "Whose son is he again?"

And thus it comes.

The fading.

Mom. Today.

Another day, another drive, another visit with my mother.

I arrive with a paltry cache today: no cookies for the staff no cake for my mother, no new clothes, no taking her out to lunch, no manicure, no courtyard nap in the sun.

Just myself, briefly, too briefly, but all that is possible today, and a wide toothed shower comb (two for three dollars at K-mart, the one I had bought for myself, as mom's had been pinched by her klepto roommate).

As ever she is surprised and relieved to see me, no idea of how long it's been since my last visit. It could have been just an hour earlier this same morning but that would be too long ago for her to recall, making it too long, so lonely long since my last visit; to her.

The tears stream down her face when I arrive, and when I leave, as always.

She has no memory of this week's visits, of last week's visit when I took her out for a drive, and to lunch in town at a Japanese restaurant. 

I show her picture proof and she is astonished: "Is that me?' she asks, barely recognizing her own image, the thinner, paler, diminished ghost version of any self she knew.

We have taken over the north-west lounge, my mother removed from the wheelchair, relieved to be ensconced on a vaguely comfortable sofa.

She wants to see more pictures and I oblige, scrounging around the iPad's spotty collection of photos I'd uploaded intermixed with images from the videos Jake watches incessantly on the thing. A thousand educational apps and all he wants is YouTubed basketball games from the 1980s. Knicks and Celtics, preferably.

Its always risky showing Mom pictures of Dad, of the two of them, together, looking so happy, robust and young, even if they are only from three years ago. The change is startling, terrifying. and she gets so wistful, so sad: "He wasn't just my husband," she tells me, who knows this better than anyone else in the world would, for perhaps the hundredth time, "He was my best friend."

Me, Mom & Dad, September, 2009

"Oh, Varda, I miss him so much!" and the floodgates open again. (But how much worse would it be if she started to forget him?)

Lunch arrives and I am once again facing off against a recalcitrant toddler. "I'm just not hungry" says my former food-loving mother, as she pushes the broccoli florets around on the plate.

But the mere act of my sitting with her pushes her appetite forward, if just a little bit.  And I resort to blatant bribery and outright bullying. Just like with my kids. "Come on, Mom, one more bite of chicken and you can eat your (rapidly melting) ice cream."

After a quick stuffing I take my leave. There are children to be picked up and dropped off, ferried about, and homework supervised and checked.

I know I'll be back on Sunday and Monday, but to her, just like my boys the first time I left them in someone else's care, it's the end of the world, abandonment forever.

I hope on Sunday I'll have at least one boy in tow. I pray that the phone calls I get from the home continue to begin with "Your mother is fine, I just called to discuss..." and never get darker.

Pop music floods my brain as I drop into the driver's seat, pushing out my tears, my sorrow, making the drive home possible, as Shakira serenades me and my car, like an old horse, seems to know the way home.

October Thoughts

Mom, on the last day of September

It's the first of October... and what will this new month bring? Certainly more visits to my mother, twice or thrice weekly, sometimes with a boy or two in tow, sometimes not. (This past Sunday, with.)

Mom & Jake on Sunday

The air took a turn for the crisp today, and I was so ready for that, as my thoughts are gliding towards the autumnal too: a little sad, the bitter mixed in with the sweet. These are the days of waning and I feel that in nearly all things right now.

None more so than when visiting Mom.

She is so diminished, I don't even know what to do with my feelings when I see her. I just try to care for her as best I can. I hold her hand and look into her eyes. We talk a little but not so much, the deafness being a barrier as well as the cognitive dimming.

I take her out into the courtyard every time I come so she can get fresh air and see the trees and flowers, birds and squirrels - what passes for nature in a paved suburban enclave. I massage her shoulders - feeling the muscle melting away, more bone and less flesh each time - and try to make sure she is being properly taken cared of.

But "Mom"? Pretty much not there any more. Just a sweet old lady with a few of her memories (and fewer by the day).

Ethan is a soccer player now

And yet there is also this: Ethan woke up earlier than usual this morning, at the same time as Jake. Unable to fall back asleep, he joined us in the living room, and instead of his usual cranky not-ready-to-be-awake self, was incredibly helpful with getting Jake ready for school.

Ethan remarked upon the still dark at that wee hour, pondered the breaking dawn. He also kept track of the time and kept himself rather on schedule to get ready for school, too. And that was just the beginning...

I had a trying day today. Literally. An Impartial Hearing is in progress with the city's DOE over Jake's schooling, and today was an in-session day. I obviously can't talk about any of the details of it, as it is... in progress, other than to say: it's about as much fun as you imagine it to be.

The hearings are in downtown Brooklyn, and we are keeping our babysitting down to a minimum these days, which meant that Dan was in charge of the boys this afternoon until I could wend my way back to the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

I came home to find quite a scene: Ethan was in the middle of patiently helping Jacob with his homework (had gotten half his own homework done already, too).

You could have knocked me down with a feather. If you are at all aware of the normally fractious relationship between my boys (just this weekend, for example) you will be stunned at the miracle this event represents.

And then? And then? And then...

Ethan made dinner for himself and Jacob. Nothing elaborate, rather basic - organic hot dogs grilled in the toaster oven, cut up fruit, baby carrots, bread / rice crackers. But still, he took the initiative,  volunteered, followed through. Incredibly proud of himself afterwards (and rightly so).

So maybe another thing this month that's autumnal and waning is a good thing: Ethan's nine year-old obnoxiousity giving way to some incoming ten year-old maturity. A mightily welcome October surprise indeed.

And I'll leave you with a little more bit of October:

A live performance from The October Project - an old friend of mine's band from the 90s. They're lovely if you've never heard them. Haunting alternative rock. Had a few albums out. Enjoy....

Visiting Mom

Mom, September 14th, 2012

Mom was far, far away when I came to see her today.

Sad,

sleepy,

lost inside herself.

She came to for moments, smiled as I placed a few familiar, much beloved objects into her hands.  But mostly she closed her eyes and drifted away.

Mom, dozing in the sun

I brought her outside, as I always do.

"It feels so good," she said, as I placed her in the warming sun. "I'm always so cold."

Mom, beautiful in profile

It's been hard since this latest fall. She has not been eating enough, her weight is down. She looks in the mirror and cries, not seeing her own beauty, finding only an old woman in a wheelchair.

I met with her team, we're making adjustments. They had her on a low-fat, low salt, "heart healthy" diet and needed my permission to take her off of it (as well as the doctor's go ahead).

This is one example of what is so wrong with our compartmentalized, knee-jerk medical system. Looking at the individual diagnosis instead of the whole person. High cholesterol = low fat diet.

I laughed because I didn't want to cry in that office. I was glad they were actually on the same page:  that putting a woman with a progressive heart condition who was clearly in the last year or so of her life - and who was losing weight due to poor appetite - on a restricted diet was beyond ludicrous.

It's all about quality of life now. We all agreed. Milkshakes are now on her meal plan. Ice cream sundaes. As much salt as she wants to make the food tastier.

And an adjustment to her medications to try to wake her up a bit.

I hope it all works.

I miss my mom.

I'm not ready to say goodbye.

Not yet.

I want more stories, a few more laughs.

To feel her shoulders relax as I massage them.

"Mmmm that feels so good." she said, patting my hand.

Before she drifted off, once again, to sleep.

90 is the new 90

My mother turned 90 yesterday, and she is finally starting to look close to her age. It's something of a shock to both her and us, who have assumed her youthfulness would go on forever.

This year has been harsh on her. Tough on all of us.

Last year at 89?

Mom & me on her 89th birthday last year

Still going strong. We drove out to Coney Island to visit with friends, made a full day of it, took Grandma out to dinner at a diner near her NYC home when we got back to Manhattan.

But this year?

Wheelchair bound now, post broken-hip fall; sleeping much of the time (her heart not pumping efficiently enough to give her a full day's energy). Living in a nursing home. Still bruised from her latest fall.

Danny and the boys and I came out from the city by train (the car is still in the shop) and my Uncle Walter - my mother's 85 year-old "baby brother" - picked us up and drove us to the nursing home which is just a mile from his house.

We gathered in one of the small lounges, just off the dining room, where there was a table, sofa, chairs.
 

Uncle Walter & Mom

Three generations

Walter brought flowers. We brought a cake (chocolate - is there any other kind?) and candles - nine, one for each decade.

 

We visited for a while, ate cake, interspersed hugs and kisses with stories. Mom napped in her chair, on and off throughout the proceedings.

Birthday kisses from Jake

I gave her a bracelet, a simple string of blue-grey pearls on an elastic cord. Something easy to wear, not too valuable, as things of value are not possible to keep in a nursing home (the sad truth).

I had no idea they would be the exact same shade as the shirt she was wearing today, a bit of serendipity, something cheerful to cut into the sadness that was running a deep vein throughout the afternoon.

Walt told winding stories of their childhood together. Tales of their parents, and the candy store they ran together; of his father's earlier work as a waiter, filling in some details I had not heard before.

(The children were bored. They played video games. Hopefully, someday they will have interest in  the currently unimaginable past.)

I hadn't realized Grandpa Joe had worked in high-class joints like the Waldorf, and been instrumental in founding the waiters union, NYC Local 1.

They talked about their grandfather, their father's father, remembered only as Zayde (Yiddish for grandfather), first name obliterated by time. Walt remembered how harsh and bristly his beard was, like razor blades, and how his father had inherited that same rough stuff.

"You have a beard like none other I have ever seen!" declared his barber when Grandpa Joe went in for his twice monthly fancy shaves, "It's tough as nails!"

Walt doesn't have this. Did it die out with my grandfather's generation, or is a steel wool beard in store for my boys when, in a few years, they sprout facial hair?

(This is why I feel it so important to gather these stories now, while those who lived them first hand are still among us and remembering. That world has long faded away, and yet my children walk into the future carrying the genes of their ancestors with their every step. these are their stories too, even if they don't know it yet.)

We took leave of Mom as dinner was being served, handed out the remains of the cake to the folks at her table.  She looked so sad, sitting there in her wheelchair, dozing off, waiting to be served.

I had to work hard to walk away without spilling over into sobs, remembering my father's bountiful 90th birthday celebration just five years ago, with abundant food, family and friends gathered 'round; not this paltry, anemic thing we had just done, too slight to be called a party.

Mom with birthday flowers and cake

Mom, I know this is not how you wanted it to be, but you made it to 90.

And 90 is still 90, a big deal. Nine decades.

And I know you don't think so, are distressed by how much you now look like "an old woman" but you are still so beautiful, so beautiful to us all.

Happy Birthday Mom! We love you!

Packing

Mom, last time I saw her, healing but sad

I spent much of the day today in my mother's apartment, sorting the final wheat from the chaff. She has pared down and pared down and pared down again and again in all the many moves of the last seven years.

But this one is extreme.  Everything must go, except what will fit in one dresser, one amoire, one nightstand. Half a room. My mother's sphere of influence, the breadth of her ownership is now half a room. In a nursing home.

Like going away to college. Only not. So. Not.

I am so filled with emotion I am nearly paralyzed. But I must not be. I have a deadline for this job. That it coincides EXACTLY with my son's first day of school is nearly killer.

I have a bottled up ocean inside me to spill out over this. But not yet. I am beyond words for now. Tucked deep into my sorrow, steeling myself for the endgame that lies ahead, be it months or years.

My father's beautiful sculptures

I keep stumbling upon bits of my childhood everywhere I look.

A baby shoe.

A book I read on my father's lap.

A hand-blown glass bauble from the gallery.

A tiny blue pitcher I gave my mother for her birthday.

How do I choose what to let go of; what to hang onto? I can't. It's impossible. But I must, so I do.

It is so hard to keep myself from tumbling down the rabbit hole, getting lost in reverie.

But I can't. I can't. I can't. I... oh my, what have I found here...