For Us (I will carry it on)

A Swift Current For US (I will carry it on)

Edouard Vuillard– 1891-1892– Private Collection

 

An hour often passed without their speaking. The shared quiet fell over them, binding them more tightly than any conversation could.

~  Jhumpa Lahiri The Lowland

 

Twenty-four hours ago,

my mother did not know me.

Now we sit

side by side;

holding hands.

Our words

drift into the air;

a deep breath;

a slight smile.

Tengo hambre, she says,

surprising me

with the lost language of her childhood.

Our silence surprises me too;

luscious relief

after years of dementia’s

nonsensical tales;

bitter accusations;

angry recriminations.

Our silence;

a tender reminder of

long ago afternoons

home from school;

the two of us sitting

at the formica table;

Chips Ahoy and milk.

Day after day,

we sat in silence as

I tried to figure out

what the nuns expected;

what the other kids wanted;

why was I so scared.

She knew

not to say a word

until I was ready.

And in our daily

interlude,

I felt safe.

Now, it is my turn

not to say a word;

we watch the birds;

I rub her shoulders;

she cradles her cheek in her palm.

As I leave

she murmurs

te quiero.

I love you too, mama

(is this

the last time

you will know me?).

But in the months left to us,

she knows me

every time.

Some days

animated–buoyant;

other days

struggling–silent;

but most always

affable–sweet–

even playful.

Her consuming turmoil and rage–

dementia’s cruelest gifts–

simply recede from view.

I am thrilled.

One day I bound into the nurses’ office—

she is so much better!

Scowling,

the new head nurse rises from her chair,

her words like bullets:

She is worse, much worse.

It is counterintuitive, I know–

but when she battles us,

when she cries out,

it is because

she knows what is happening to her—

she knows.

The fierce, combative woman–

the anguished, angry woman—

that was your Mother

fighting to get out.

This docile, compliant woman–

You think she is better.

But she is worse.

There’s just no more battle in her.

She is done.

The disease has finally won.

It always does.

I was stunned.

My sweet mama

wasn’t so sweet after all;

she was done.

For a decade

I’d been embarrassed by her behavior;

bruised by her temper;

I should have been cheering her on.

And now,

someone has finally told me

what is happening to my mother.

She has lost her ferocious battle;

I am losing

her.

It is time;

I have to let her go–

for her–

for me.

Once again

a song on the radio

becomes my anthem

and my balm.

The lyrics echo still–

Every day that will pass you by

Natalie Maines’ crystalline voice–

Every name that you won’t recall

Martie Maguire’s scorching violin–

Everything that you made by hand

their refrain–

Everything that you know by heart

my silent vow

to you

to me

for us

And I will try to connect

All the pieces you left

I will carry it on

And let you forget.

And I’ll remember the years

When your mind was clear

How laughter and life

Filled up this silent house

 

A Swift Current For Us (I will carry it on)

Edouard Villard, After the Meal, c. 1900, Musée d’Orsay, Paris

 

The Lowland, a novel by Jhumpa Lahiri published by Alfred A. Knopf Copyright 2013 by Jhumpa Lahiri all rights reserved.

Silent House from the Dixie Chicks, Taking the Long Way, Writer(s): Natalie Maines, Neil Finn, Neil Mullane Finn, Emily Robison, Martha Maguire Copyright: Chrysalis Music Ltd., Woolly Puddin’ Music, Chrysalis Songs, Scrapin’ Toast Music all rights reserved.

 

Privilege

Summary: Discussions of eldercare issues are often imbued with a sense of burden and pain. While in no way do I intend to downplay the issues confronted by the elderly and their caregivers, I strongly believe the last decade of my mother’s life taught me what matters. Amid difficulties and struggle, our bonds became stronger and deeper. I am honored to share my perspective to Caring Across Generation’s #blog4care as together we address the needs of our elder loved ones. For more information, http://www.caringacross.org

 

A Swift Current Privilege, My Visits Were for Me

Edouard Vuillard– Mother and Daughter…

 

…what caring for our mothers really taught us…this part of life that so many people are afraid of…the act of carrying on a conversation with someone who can’t speak to you — and being there when they are dying—

there was a sense of privilege…and a sense the ‘Gosh, I was so afraid of this, I didn’t want to do it; I didn’t want to be here.’

But being here is starting to feel like a good thing, a good part of life—

something that we avoid in this culture that actually is a rich experience, albeit painful; it’s actually so much a part of life and so many people never get to be in it.

~Will Scheffer, interview on Fresh Air, National Public Radio

 

Your flight to Los Angeles has been cancelled.

What? No!

We’ve put you on the next flight. You’ll arrive at 3 PM.

But my mother…

I started to cry.

I have only a little time this trip–a few extra hours–this trip is for work…

and

now

I won’t get to see my mother.

The American Airlines agent looked down, tapping her keyboard. She placed a call—exchanged a few words– printed a boarding pass

You’re on the United flight

in one hour;

Find the tram–

Don’t stop for anything–

Run!

Until that moment

I thought my treks to the nursing home

were for my mother.

Bearing flowers and chocolates,

I’d brighten her day;

check on her care;

play the loving daughter.

In tears at the airline counter,

I realized;

my visits were for me.

And for the next ten years

I took joy from those visits

in spite of–

because of–

our cacophony of emotions;

every visit

a wild ride between

tenderness and anguish–

endearments and allegations–

astute observations and twisted fantasies—

all with roots

firmly planted in our past.

As my mother lost the ability to edit,

her words were often not

polite;

appropriate;

acceptable.

She said what she thought–

And I began to know my mother;

unfiltered;

unequivocal;

real.

But throughout our decade of dementia, I could count on one thing; she always welcomed me with outstretched arms and a redeeming grin —

(I knew it would be you! I had a feeling you were coming! I want a hug!)

until

the day

she didn’t.

I’d driven to the nursing home from the airport. My mother was in the dining room. She’d just finished lunch.

I stood in front of her, smiling broadly

Surprise!

She gazed up at me. A tentative curl of her lips; a slight nod of her head:

Hello.

I always knew this could happen.

Do you know me?

Yes, I know you. You’re Irving Berlin’s daughter!

Well um, um, no,

I’m Hallie.

That’s funny. I have a daughter named Hallie.

Yes! That’s me. I’m your daughter– Hallie!

No.

I would know Hallie.

My Hallie is

not you.

I always knew this could happen.

But I was determined. I’d travelled 3000 miles and I wanted my moment—gleeful recognition, tight embrace, beaming smile.

I tried again.

Well, what if we played a game? What if I answered questions only your Hallie could answer?

I do not want to play that game.

You would think, after all these years, I would get it.

I didn’t get it.

And so–as if words could release her– I talked. Her responses were vague; cool; reticent. She told me that she liked the facility; she was learning new things, like how to eat with a fork. She’d never used one, she said. It was difficult, but she thought she could do it.

I was relieved when one of her friends arrived;

(look mama, she knows me!).

As her friend and I started chatting,

my mother became exasperated:

Would you two please leave!

But mama, I just got here. I can visit. I have all day!

LEAVE!

Her friend implored

Please don’t go; she loves you so. She talks about you all the time.

GO!

She doesn’t mean it. Don’t go…please don’t go…she will be so sad…

GO NOW!

I left.

I wandered around the hotel; watched a movie;

and realized

she made sense.

A stranger acting as though she knew you;

insisting she’s your daughter when

clearly she is not.

And the imposter wouldn’t leave–

terrifying!

I would tell me to leave too.

I returned the following day. She was sitting in the dining room.

Do you know me?

Yes! You are the Archangel Gabriel!

Her next words were gibberish; the invented language of an infant; startling sounds from a 94 year old woman.

I left.

On the third day, I found her sitting with her nurse;

she looked at me steadily;

her eyes did not light up;

her arms did not reach out.

Do you know me?

Yes, she said,

you are my baby.

Her nurse turned away.

I stayed.

My visits were for me.

 

My Mother has done it. She has made me see what she wanted me to see…

Together we are quiet and still.

                                                                        ~Anna Quindlen, Every Last One

 

A Swift Current Vuillard In The Shade My Visits Were for Me

Edouard Vuillard– In The Shade

 

Edouard Vuillard, Mother and Daughter against a Red Background, 1891, Private Collection. Vuillard painted this image when he was just 23 years old.

The Fresh Air interview with television producers Will Scheffer and Mark V. Olsen originally aired on December 23, 2013 on National Public Radio. Scheffer and Olsen produced the HBO’s series “Big Love” and ”Getting On”. Their fascinating interview (entitled ‘Getting On’ With It: A new HBO Show Doesn’t Tiptoe Around Death’), is available at the Fresh Air website and as an iTunes podcast. Interviewer Terry Gross, Scheffer and Olsen explore several aspects caregiving for aging parents, as well as for your partner. According to the interview, while they were producing Big Love, Olsen flew from LA to Nebraska every other Friday night to visit his ailing mother, flying back to LA on the 5 AM flight Monday morning; Scheffer also made the Friday to Monday visits to his ailing mother in NYC alternate weekends.

Every Last One by Anna Quindlen Copyright 2010 by Anna Quindlen Published by Random House Group, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.

Edouard Vuillard, In The Shade, 1907

 

Little Did We Know

Missing poster

Missing Poster–displayed on a neighborhood lamp post– Photo by Hallie Swift

In a bustling airport,

I watched the scene unfold;

an elderly woman

surrounded by police.

She was traveling to see her son.

She did not know where he lived.

She did not know her name.

Clutching a policewoman’s hand, she cried

Please don’t leave me!

I moved on.

Why on earth is she traveling alone?

I thought;

What an irresponsible son!

Little did I know.

Across the country

my mother was covering up

signs of emerging dementia.

We attributed her occasional slip to

forgetfulness;

laziness;

or an annoying

ploy for attention.

And my clever mother always

smoothed over missteps;

deflecting any doubt;

Mama, what did you say?

Oh, I was only joking!

And with that assurance,

we moved on.

Just a few years later,

the doctors gave those missteps a name–

dementia–

but beyond their diagnosis,

the professionals

seemed unwilling

to explain what was happening.

And when I asked too many questions,

their answers were imbued with impatience;

peppered with subtle disregard.

I remember

during the first weeks of our nursing home life;

a social worker nonchalantly commented:

Well, that’s your mother’s Sundowner’s Syndrome.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

When I asked for an explanation, he seemed incredulous

You know, he said, in the afternoons, she gets more confused.

She does?

Yes, she’s more confused in the afternoon. It is called Sundowner’s Syndrome.

Later

the meaning of sundowner’s was dramatically revealed during a visit with my uncle.

My uncle and aunt–

always impossibly charming—stylish–even glamorous–

in my adoring eyes, and

in their respective 90th and 93rd years,

they still were.

I visited their new assisted living facility; assisted or not,

they appeared unchanged—

my handsome, jovial uncle; my gracious, proper aunt–

compared to the typical roller coaster visit with my mom,

this was easy.

But as the afternoon light shifted, deep shadows fell across my uncle’s chair.

Without warning,

he looked anxious.

He glared at me;

his face etched with fear.

His expression menacing, he demanded

Who are you?

I froze.

My aunt buried her head in her hands;

Oh no, oh no. This is so frightening.

And as if a loud voice could clear his mind, she shouted

It’s Hallie; it’s Hallie; Mike’s daughter, Hallie!

Who?

Your brother Mike—Mike’s daughter– Hallie!

I don’t know any Hallie. Are you my wife?

My aunt raised her voice; it’s Mike’s daughter! Mike’s daughter, Hallie!

Mike didn’t have any daughters.

Sundowner’s Syndrome;

like film noir–

shadows appear sinister; mysterious; threatening;

and the demented brain reacts.

In a flash,

the patient responds to danger;

fear sets the stage.

A Swift Current Dark Shadows

Dark Shadows– Photo by Hallie Swift

Just as startling,

as the drifting light again enveloped my uncle’s chair,

he snapped out of the sorcerer’s spell–

Hallie,

he smiled wanly,

come see us again soon.

And there you have it–

my mom–

my uncle—

a face staring from a missing poster

or lost in an airport–

each completely different;

each exactly the same.

They call it dementia;

they use clinical words and vague terminology;

but they don’t tell you what to expect;

they simply don’t know.

Much later

as the disease approached its final stages,

my mother would sit for hours in the garden;

cradling her face in her hands.

She’d taken to wearing a cap over her unwashed hair—unwashed because she wouldn’t let anyone touch her;

she’d scream if we tried.

Words fumbled; sentences incomplete; her thoughts quickly evaporated into silence.

It appeared

we had finally reached

dementia’s steepest slope;

little did we know.

Right before her last birthday,

my mother re-emerged;

back in the sun.

A  Swift Current my mother's 95th birthday

Reading cards on her 95th birthday Photo by Hallie Swift

Sporting a new haircut,

she was ebullient; effusive;

brimming with excitement for her 95th year.

My sister and I were wary; her mood could change at any moment. Just the three of us gathered in the garden—bestowing balloons, presents, cake,

and photo birthday cards with images from her youth.

That day

my mother’s joy never abated; she was clear, content and even more beautiful than the pictures on the cards.

A Swift Current my mother's 95th birthday

“That’s me!” My mother seeing her picture on a birthday card–Photo by Hallie Swift

As the afternoon light slowly shifted, she studied us closely.

Nodding slowly,

a faint smile at the corner of her lips,

she quietly proclaimed

I am so pleased.

As we returned to her room, she gave her best Queen Elizabeth wave to her fellow residents in the dining hall, calling out

Thank you for coming to my party!

The nursing staff approached my sister and me. They shared our euphoria, confiding that they were astonished by what had transpired.

Just a few weeks earlier, they were not sure she would make it to her birthday. Certainly she would not understand what was going on.

Instead she surprised all of us with a transformation

no one could anticipate.

She gave us

her old self;

a radiant last birthday;

reminding

all of us

once and for all

how little we know.
      

A Swift Current on her 95th birthday

“…observe her closely…it is almost as though she will be gone shortly…” Quote from Octave Mirbeau…Photo by Hallie Swift on my mother’s last birthday

The Octave Mirbeau “Observe her closely…” quote comes from his description of Claude Monet’s Study of a Figure Outdoors, Facing Right ,1886, in the collection of the Musee d’Orsay, Paris

To Understand (and he blessed you best of all)

looking up February 7, 2014  Photo by Hallie Swift

looking up February 7, 2014 Photo by Hallie Swift


Your eyes seem from a different face

They’ve seen that much that soon

Your cheek too cold, too pale to shine

Like an old and waning moon

And there is no peace

No true release

No secret place to crawl

And there is no rest

For the ones God blessed

And He blessed you best of all

                                                          (from King of Bohemia by Richard Thompson)

On this day, thirty eight years ago,

my father died.

He was 63 years old.

In my mind,

he was not done.

My dad had anticipated his retirement years;

articles he would write;

classes he would teach;

trips he would enjoy;

someday.

When he died, his record company issued a news release:

‘…one of the very few true experts in the field of classical music…”

my very true expert;

my daddy;

gone at 63.

In his last months, he wrote to us; ideas and observations, philosophies and beliefs;

his letters, I thought, signaled the promise of things to come…

…Beethoven is not the only artist who suffered from excessive solemnity- which is a lead in to my second heretical statement.

If find the famous Sistine Chapel fresco of Michelangelo to be a bit ludicrous- I suspect the reason I regard it as a failure is that Michelangelo attempted to do too much- and found it impossible to sustain a high level of thought on the vast scale that he outlined.

Like the Ninth Symphony, the kindest words…are that it is a noble failure- but a failure nonetheless.

Several times I have been tempted to write a series of essays under a general heading like “Putting the Classics in their Place.” I have myself sometimes been annoyed by my own timidity at not speaking out against the oppressiveness of mass acceptance.

He never got a chance to write those articles; teach those classes; take those trips. My father’s retirement was brief; cancer stealing his hard-earned years of leisure; of reflection; of speaking out.

In my mind, he was cheated.

And I felt cheated too.

I read those final letters countless times; desperately searching for him amid the carefully chosen words and well-reasoned opinions. I wanted to know what he would think; what he would say; what he would do.

I wanted what could never be.

And I could not let go.

Just a few years ago, my pain began to ease. I wrote an article; not about Beethoven; not about Michelangelo;

I wrote about my dad.

He had been a record producer—in the early days—back when there were long-playing albums. In his era, the producer’s name didn’t appear on the jacket. I wanted to correct that oversight; give him credit; capture his role for posterity.

Researching every accomplishment; documenting every claim;

I wrote a Wikipedia page;

the internet equivalent of scratching

I was here

into the sand.

I showed it to my best friend. I watched nervously as she read. She paused and looked at me

This is a big life.

Three simple words:

a big life;

and for the first time in all those years,

I felt relief.

I began to understand;

he had done so much in so short a time;

he could do no more;

he was done.

I no longer needed to talk to him

every time I heard a piece of music;

no longer felt tumultuous anger;

no longer wished for what would never be.

My daddy

gave me all he could;

the rest was up to me.

I Was Here  Central Park discovery as I wrote this post  Photo by Hallie Swift

I Was Here ( a Central Park discovery as I wrote this post) Photo by Hallie Swift

And then, just a few weeks ago, I was completely confounded by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

I felt a sense of loss out of all proportion. I kept telling myself

…you don’t know him…he belongs to his family…to his friends…

but the news blared and I listened

…the greatest actor of his generation…

I thought films were better because he was in them; his characters illuminating,

even the smallest part searing.

I read story after story about his prodigious career, his nuanced, soul-diving performances;

done at 46.

Amid the tragedy of his death, articles repeatedly bemoaned

performances we lost;

roles he should have played;

disappointment we will never see his Lear!

I bristled;

What could have been

only undermines

the undeniable feats;

the huge accomplishments;

the impenetrable mystery

of

his big life.

We want to believe

the best is yet to come;

we keep telling ourselves

someday…

but

for any of us;

for all of us;

our best

might be have been

a long time ago;

our promise now a memory.

(But we will never know).

Finally

I understand;

the measure of a life –

any life—

my father’s life–

is not captured by

annotated references

and attributable sources.

His best

might be hidden in the margins–

a fleeting moment;

an off-hand comment;

a letter written to his daughter when

he knew he was going to die.

He tried to tell her

what matters.

Put the classics in their place.

It took me

a long time

to understand;

every life

a big life;

no small parts.

63 years; 46 years;

he gave all he could.

Gone

Done

Blessed.


If tears unshed could heal your heart

If words unsaid could sway

Then watch you melt into the night

With Adieu and rue the day

Did your dreams die young

Were they too hard won

Did you reach too high and fall

And there is no rest

For the ones God blessed

And He blessed you best of all

To Understand

to understand– Corita, serigraph, 1965 Used with permission of the Corita Art Center, Immaculate Heart Community, Los Angeles “to understand is to stand under which is to look up to which is a good way to understand”…art and words by Sister Mary Corita

For more information on Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita) www.corita.org

All Lyrics from King of Bohemia by Richard Thompson copyright 1994 Beeswing Music All Rights Reserved

All That You Can’t Leave Behind Part 2

Vuillard--Misia at the Piano, 1899

Vuillard–Misia at the Piano, 1899


Vuillard 1895

Vuillard 1895

And if the darkness is to keep us apart

And the daylight feels like it’s a long way off

And if your glass heart should crack

And for a second you turn back

Oh no, be strong

  Walk on, walk on

What you’ve got they can’t steal it

No they can’t even feel it

Walk on walk on

Stay safe tonight

Mama, can we clean this out? I’ll help you. It’ll be fun!

I pulled the handle. Papers spilled as the heavy drawer slowly opened –church bulletins, family photos, old grocery lists-

a waterfall of paper cascading to the floor.

Oh no, oh no! Put that back… I might need it!

A grocery list?

I might need it!

I put it back. Valued keepsakes; dumpster-bound discards; my mother’s home was an archeological dig waiting to happen.

There was even artwork under the beds.

Please don’t get me wrong. My mother was not a hoarder; she was a survivor; a Depression survivor. She saw potential in everything.

Can’t we throw this out?

NO!

But she didn’t live there anymore.

She lived in a nursing home.

And it was time to tackle 40 years of accumulated treasures.

With every decision

(would cousin Peter like this?)

(could the thrift shop sell this?)

(do you want this?)

I was haunted.

Our mother –

who relished this home

and cherished these belongings–

would not approve.

Even though she said

it’s time to sell the house;

I knew

she didn’t mean it.

She didn’t want this.

She lived only a few miles away,

And there we were;

shelf by shelf; drawer by drawer; closet by closet;

demolishing her life.

As we begin,

the neighbors accost prospective buyers, proclaiming the house should not be sold. Our mother would be happily at home if it weren’t for her evil daughters— from the east– who put her away.

A neighbor races to the nursing home

They are removing your dining room furniture. You said I could have it. I’ll give you a good price!

My mother is hysterical.

The nurses are aghast.

Nothing surprises us.

We clean the garage. Donning hazard masks, we load huge dumpsters– expired medicine; exploded tomato cans; a wealth of evidence that dementia made its appearance a long time ago.

A neighbor storms into the backyard. Jabbing her finger in the air

You are making a big mistake. We can take care of her. She‘s just fine!

We sift sort discard

clean pack

cry.

The neighbors’ tirades could not begin to match the torrent of emotions inside those walls.

The most mundane objects–

a chipped cookie jar;

battered manicure set;

dog-eared encyclopedia–

spark a firestorm of memories.

But where’s Uncle Charlie’s diamond?

Grandma’s wedding band?

Missing!

Lost.

Stolen?

We will never know.

But in truth–

they can have the diamond;

we have the cookie jar.

As each room is emptied, my apprehension grows;

I have dreaded this moment for years.

In a few days,

my sister and I will walk out of this house

for the last time;

down the steps, down the red brick path;

no turning back.

I am not sure I can do it.

We lift pull carry

scrub sweep

find

small glass bottles of water

hidden in a bottom drawer.

But not just any water—this is holy water– blessed at our parish church the night before Easter.

Our family always attended The Easter Vigil; my parents enthusiastically participating in the church’s dramatic rituals as it prepared its new year;

its new beginning.

The blessing of water was one of those rituals;

apparently my mother had saved water every year–

water with special powers–

if you believe in such things.

My sister and I look at each other, amused;

What on earth do we do with holy water?

The toilet?

Bad karma! Let’s decide later.

Later

the house is empty; not a single object remains;

except the water.

The closing is this afternoon;

our purses sit by the door;

Let’s sprinkle the water in the garden!

My sister walks to a rose bush

I sent this to daddy when he learned about the cancer.

We toss water on the roses and say our parents’ names.

In an instant

the moment I have dreaded for years

is easy.

We look at each other

surprised; relieved;

they would approve!

Laughing

we sprinkle water throughout the garden

calling our ancestors’ names:

our grandparents and their parents;

our aunts; our uncles;

the water is almost gone.

We walk to the tree at the corner

This is for

 our cousins

and their children

and their children’s children.

And for us–

This is for us.

I had anticipated heartache; sorrow; remorse.

I felt

grace;

hope;

jubilation.

We danced down the red brick path and got in the car. I had planned this part. The daughter of a record producer, I knew I would need a soundtrack.

I had already installed U-2’s latest disc. I hit track 4. We drove away as Bono sang the words that had carried me to this moment; the words I needed to hear

Leave it behind

You’ve got to leave it behind

All that you fashion

All that you make

All that you build

All that you break

All that you measure

All that you steal

   All this you can leave behind…

The Day We Moved In, Photo by my sister, 1963

The Day We Moved In, Photo by my sister, 1963

Both sets of lyrics from Walk On, from the album All That You Can’t Leave Behind by U2, music and lyrics by Adam Clayton, Larry Mullin, Dave Evans, Paul David Hewson, copyright Polygram International Music Publishing, BV

Again I welcome your comments.

All That You Can’t Leave Behind Part 1

A Place That Has To Be Believed...Photo by Hallie Swift

A Very Very Very Fine House…Photo by Hallie Swift

You’re packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen…

                                                                   (from Walk On by U2)

I see it

still;

the cool white Spanish walls

on a hot LA day;

sun streaming

in the tall windows;

the welcome breeze at dusk.

My sister

at the piano;

fingers flying, chords vibrating,

her conquest:

Rhapsody in Blue;

just for the fun of it.

My father

on the sofa;

end-of-the-day vodka

cradled in his hand;

a dog-eared encyclopedia

resting in his lap; always

studying something new,

just for the fun of it.

My mother

in her chair;

exhausted from

chores and cooking; cooking and chores;

waiting to be

swept away by

Masterpiece Theater;

just for the relief of it.

I see us

still;

I took it all for granted;

my mother did not.

She wanted to buy a home for years, struggling to convince my Depression-scarred dad, who didn’t believe in debt.

But she wanted a house.

And she wanted this house.

When she heard Mrs. Gold might sell, my mother walked up the red brick path and

knocked:

I have loved this house

from the moment she opened the door.

It was her dream; her triumph;

she even bought Mrs. Gold’s dining room set.

My mother lived in her house for 40 years;

until one day

with our urging

she headed to the hospital.

Knee replacement surgery would guarantee her independence

or so we thought;

I will have you dancing out of the hospital, her surgeon lied.

She walked out her door,

down the red brick path;

she never walked again.

In the beginning, I did not accept her fate. She begged to go home; I vowed to make it happen.

But two years after the surgery,

I finally started to understand.

My sister and I faced a dilemma. We lived in the east. We could not take care of our childhood home.

And we needed to pay the nursing home bills.

We needed to sell the house.

(But how do we tell her?)

We spent the holidays in Los Angeles;

(Merry Christmas, mama; oh by the way, we are going to destroy you).

We visited. We celebrated. We did not discuss it.

Our holiday was slipping away. December 26…

December 27…

I was trembling when we walked into her room.

Before we said a word, she looked at us evenly:

Well, girls, I’ve been thinking. I think it’s time we sold the house.

WHAT?

It must have been unsettling– knowing we were staying in her home–without her.

And just the day before, my uncle casually remarked

Well, dear, I’m going to your house now… to have a martini…

I gulped; he turned white; but

his blunder might have been the welcome catalyst —

Well, girls…I think it’s time we sold the house.

I was ecstatic. She had made a staggering decision with no prompting. But within days,

she protested:

Who said you could sell the house? Who decided?

You did, mama.

I did? I don’t remember!

Yes mama, you said: Girls, I think it’s time we sold the house.

I would never say that!

But you did, mama, you did.

And she had decided,

for one day–

or at least for one moment–

but I had learned; in the world of dementia, you take what you can get.

I never mentioned our house again.

But she did.

She continually plotted her return long after it had been sold. She tore our family photos from the nursing home wall, preparing for her journey. She begged the nurses for a bus pass. She sat stoically by the front door, waiting for her (long dead) sister to pick her up.

Sometimes I waited with her.

I let her believe her sister was coming.

I let her believe her home was waiting.

I could not destroy my mother’s hope.

Out of the blue, she might ask

Where is my dining room table?

We have it.

Who has it?

Well, you remember Uncle Ted, right?

Well, of course.

Remember his son Bob?

Yes, Hallie, of course.

Well, then you remember Bob’s daughter. Remember when she was a baby and had her first Thanksgiving at your table…

Oh yes, she is so cute!

Well, mama, Bob’s daughter has your table and all the dining room furniture. She is taking care of it for you. And when you are ready, she’s going to bring it back. Does that sound like a plan?

Yes! That sounds like a plan!

Over the years, she asked about her possessions as though she were taking inventory; table by table; room by room. She even asked about her recipes; an intriguing question for someone who hated to cook…

And each time, I converted her questions into conversations about family. I tried to be careful, calm, reassuring– her belongings would be returned, of course, when it’s time to go home.

But when is that?

When is what?

When am I going home?

Well, first you have to move into assisted living. And if you can be in assisted living without falling, you can go home. Wouldn’t it be terrible if you went home and had to come right back?

Yes, that would be terrible.

When you can live on your own without falling, then you can go home. Does that sound like a plan?

There was silence.

That, she said slowly, is a very tall order.

I know mama,
but it would be awful if you fell…

She looked into my eyes.

I believe

she knew exactly what I was doing.

You can go home…

That is a very tall order.

I stare into her almond-shaped hazel eyes;

And I see us

still;

Sitting on the sofa;

Playing the piano;

Waiting for

Masterpiece Theater.

We can go home, mama.

We will walk up the red brick path;

light streaming in the tall windows;

white stucco walls against the hot LA sun;

a cool breeze at dusk.

Your home is waiting for you, mama;

I will take you there.

Does that sound like a plan?

Home I can’t say where it is

But I know I am going home

That’s where the heart is

And I know it aches

How your heart it breaks

And you can only take so much

Walk on, Walk on

Vincent van Gogh, White House at Night, 1890  Hermitage Museum Collection

Vincent van Gogh, White House at Night, 1890 Hermitage Museum Collection

Both sets of lyrics from Walk On, from the album All That You Can’t Leave Behind by U2, music and lyrics by Adam Clayton, Larry Mullin, Dave Evans, Paul David Hewson, Copyright Polygram Int. Music Publishing B.V.

The last essay, Remember the Ladies, inadvertently did not allow Reader Comments. I hope the problem has been remedied, and I welcome your comments. Thank you, Hallie

Remember The Ladies (Reprise)

A Swift Current Remember the Ladies--Christmas Owl Tree

The Owl Christmas Tree–Just Because–Photo by Hallie Swift

The head nurse was concerned.

She knew many of her residents had outlived family and friends.

She knew

come Christmas morning

many of her residents would not find gifts under the tree.

Determined to end their disappointment,

she issued an appeal:

WE NEED SECRET SANTAS!

Eagerly accepting the assignment,

my friends and I started to plan—

but what do you need at 90?

Chocolates and sweaters and books and stuffed animals and comforters and…

You need lipstick!

Lipstick?

Yes, urged my friend,

after all, you never lose your vanity.

She was inspired.

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

And in our annual Christmas party invitation,

we issued our own appeal.

Instead of a hostess gift,

we included a specific request:

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And a tradition was born.

That year,

and every subsequent year,

we were showered with

gorgeous reds, shimmering corals, hot pinks;

a cornucopia of small rectangular boxes

adorned with festive ribbons and bright paper.

Our friends were enthusiastic–

I even needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

And Christmas morning,

when the nurses presented our beautiful little packages to the residents,

the response

was electric

(you never lose your vanity!).

The head nurse was effusive:

you made my residents happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, you made our Christmas!

And girls—

Estee Lauder; Elizabeth Arden, Chanel…?

My ladies are beside themselves;

you girls are too much!

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

But actually, our friends were too much. They gave us elegant brands in luscious colors, lovingly selected and carefully wrapped. One friend reported that she and the saleswoman chose lipsticks with tears in their eyes—then added every powder, polish and hand cream sample in the department. Even friends who couldn’t attend the party joined the lipstick brigade.

I wish they could have seen the smiles.

A few days after Christmas, a resident approached me; her eyes wide and glistening; her beautiful grey hair pulled back in a long braid.

Are you Hallie?

She reached into her pocket and produced a lipstick.

She giggled as she waved it high in the air;

her voice light, girlish, melodic;

I’m Dorothy.

I just love my lipstick. Thank you!

The pleasure was ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipstick became a defining moment of our holiday season. Some friends even continue the tradition; now taking lipsticks to their local nursing homes.

And recently

a friend told me

she always thinks of my mom

this time of year;

I say a little prayer

for your mom…

remembering the lipsticks of years gone by…

Remember The Ladies.

A Swift Current Vuillard The Earthenware Pot

Merry Christmas from A Swift Current and Vuillard (Le Pot d’Argile 1895)