It's Mom's 98th Birthday ...

Mom's hs yearbook pic.
Thomas Jefferson HS
Richmond, VA, 1936

Today is my mother's 98th birthday. She was born in 1919. Woodrow Wilson was President. World War I had just ended (her uncle Bill was a soldier).  She married my father on October 12, 1939. She bore three sons: Richard (1941), Daniel (1944), Davis (1948). I was born while Dad was in Europe with the U. S. Army (World War II).

I have posted here on her birthday for the past few years, and I don't really want to repeat myself, so here's a link to a post from a couple of years ago. Things have changed a lot for her--and us--the past few years.

Two years ago--hell, last year--she was still in her assisted living place in Lenox, Mass. They loved her there, did all they could to keep her. But Age wins, of course (and entropy), and a couple of months ago she was simply unable to do anything for herself--and so she had to go to the nursing wing of the facility, the place where she'd made my brothers and me promise we would never send her.

But my younger brother, Dave (who lives a couple of hours away and is her principal caretaker), told me that she does not seem upset by the move. Has not complained to him a single time.

And when Joyce and I were there last week, Mom seemed perfectly at peace with her new situation. I'm not sure it's because she's arrived at some understanding; it's due, I think, to her increasing unawareness of what's going on.

Her move has been frustrating for me in one way: While she was in assisted living, I was able to call her several times a week. Not long conversations--she cannot generate much these days. But for five minutes or so, a few times a week, I got to hear her voice. A voice I've known for nearly 73 years now.

But now ... the phone is different. She can't really reach it from her bed. When I was in her room with her this week, I called from my cell; her phone rang; she didn't react at all. So ... unless one of my brothers is there and calls me, I cannot count on hearing her voice. It's a horrible feeling.

She is in a wheelchair now, but the aides at her facility are great about getting her out and about. We found her playing Scrabble one day in a social room down the hall. (Her mother was an ace at that game!)

A great thrill for me last week: She knew who I was. And Joyce. Because of health issues I haven't been able in the last couple of years to hop in the car and drive 550 miles (each way) to see her. And although I still write snail-mail to her twice a week, there's no real connection for me except in my imagination, for she cannot answer those letters. Not anymore. But Joyce and I had a touching conversation with her late in the afternoon before we left. She remembered things. Smiled. Laughed. Touched us as we touched her.

Mom was on email until, oh, a half-dozen years ago or so, but she can no longer do that, either. So my relationship with my mother has gradually evanesced to the point at which it's now mostly on the page--or in my imagination and memory. It's a comfort, sure, to have those memories ... but ... not being able to hear that voice ... that voice that spoke loving words to me before I even knew what a word was ... or love ...