Mom: 1919-2018

Mom's high-school yearbook picture,
senior year, 1936,
Richmond, VA

And so begin my days without a mother. For seventy-three years and four months she was always there; she seemed immortal, burying her grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents, brother (her only sibling), husband, and virtually all of her friends.

But, of course, she wasn't. Immortal. She died yesterday morning in a nursing home in Lenox, Mass., part of the stages-of-care place where she's been living for the past dozen years or so. She went through them all: independent living, assisted living, nursing. The caretakers loved her all the way along--and why not? She was a gentle, uncomplaining soul. Gave none of them grief. Always expressed gratitude for their help.

She had been, said the hospice nurse, "responsive" the night before. But in the morning she was not. Breathing slowly, then irregularly, then nothing. A sigh and that was all.

I'll probably be writing about her off and on for a while--just so much to say. But for today I just wanted to talk about how strange it is, not having parents. The folks who knew all your stories (and often told them at the damnedest times!).

Something that's doubly strange about today for me: I always wrote to Mom on Sunday morning. Well ... "always" is not exactly accurate. Earlier in my adult, away-from-home life I would call them. Then--Mom got into email (she was the first in the family with a computer--an old Apple), and I communicated with her (besides the phone calls) via AOL for years.

Then, gradually, she lost the ability to use that laptop, though she resolutely left it in prominent view in her place--just to let folks know it was hers. My nephew, Ricky (bless him), used to update it whenever he visited--which was fairly often since he and his family (my younger brother's family) live in the Boston area.

During the final phases of her ability to use it, she would sometimes, full of frustration, call me and try to get me to help--which is hard to do when you can't see the screen. One time when I was there I took some pictures of her computer and keyboard and made a little illustrated booklet for her. But soon she couldn't handle that, either. And the email days ended.

So ... late in 2010 I started writing her snail-mail--Wednesday and Sunday. Calling a few times a week.

And then, only months ago, the calling became pointless. She couldn't answer the phone--was completely uncertain, really, what a phone even is. Sometimes, when my brothers were there, they would put one of their phones up to her ear and mouth. But Mom just seemed puzzled, barely muttering.

But, you know, hearing those mutters and mumblings were the sounds of Mozart to me.

Because she could no longer read my letters, my brothers or her attendants would read them to her. I wrote my last one on the past Wednesday and have no idea if it arrived--or if she could have understood any of it.

On Sunday evenings, after supper, Joyce and I would drive off on an errand (a coffee, a Diet Coke, a whatever), mailing Mom's letter along the way somewhere ... so what about this evening? It will be surpassingly strange ...

Here's one more sad thing. Mom was a great reader. Always reading, every spare moment (not that there were a lot of those with three jerky sons to take care of). On through her career, on through her retirement, on into her years in stages-of-care: read, read, read, read.

My brothers and I would feed her books like snack food. And then ... that stopped, too. Was it her eyesight? Her ability to focus? To remember? Probably all of the above. But--as she did with her laptop--she kept her final book on the stand right beside her chair. Bookmarked. Ready.

I am in some ways relieved that she no longer has to live in the way age had forced her to: She could do none of the things she really loved--reading, watching the news, going for hikes, swimming, talking on the phone with friends and family, driving to the store to buy some chocolate frozen yogurt and fresh salmon (her favorites!) ... you know ...

My brothers and I would bring her chocolate, right to the end. One of her final pleasures.

Nothing really makes any of this easier.

Last night, our son and his family came up for the evening. Just to be with us. We looked at Mom's old 1936 high school yearbook; we looked at the baby book she put together for me in my infancy--including the little letter that she wrote to me in the book (at the bottom of this post). We told stories. Remembered things.

Then, just before they left, grandson Logan (13) and I mixed up the sourdough starter that I would use for today's baking. Logan's interested in the whole thing--had questions about how the whole thing works. I did my best to answer them.

My starter will turn 33 years old this summer. If I keep treating it well, it will live and live and live and live.

Mom almost 80, 1999, our house in Hudson;
in town for our son's wedding