The Sweet Memories

Mom's 80th Birthday Party

Mom with grandchildren & her aunt Sallie

I miss having a mother.  I missed having a mother for much of my adult life when she was alive, although I knew my mom cared about me.  I was going to write those stories about how we didn't get along, but I've decided not to for now, just the sweet memories.

Shopping with my mother is a pervasive memory.  Shopping at Lee's Children's Store on Central, Fedway downtown, Lynn's at Coronado.  I remember going to the store where she had her hats made.  There were also trips to Henry Hillson's wholesale store, where we picked up cheap dresses and clothing.  When I was older, she took me to her store- CarLin's, the expensive women's store.

There were trips to Vicker's Toy Store, buying Nancy Drew books at the office store at Nob Hill, grocery shopping. 

I remember one Valentine's Day present in particular-- a little brass doll bed with a red and gold bedspread and cylinder shaped bolster.

I remember drives to Four Hills Country Club for swimming, my mother taking us to swimming lessons at Menaul Club and the Tennis Club, as well.

Her cooking and baking- especially golden brownies and surprise cookies.  Her "company juice"- grape juice blended with bananas.  Chopped liver, knishes, packaged scalloped potatoes, and, strangely enough, broiled liver, although not a favorite.  Her special meal, for some birthdays, especially Richard's, was shish kabobs.

When she was younger, mom liked to entertain.  I learned organizing for entertaining from her.  She laid out the serving plate she would use.  I vaguely remember a neighborhood Channukah party when I was young.  Knowing now how hard it is to turn out lots and lots of latkes, I really appreciate that.

I remember my parents coming back from their annual New Year's trip to Las Vegas with Doris and Jack.  My mom didn't gamble, but was proud of the Lalique party favors she brought back.

I rarely give my mother credit for anything, but she gave me my love of reading. My mom liked magazines.  I remember Life, Look, Good Housekeeping, Ladies' Home Journal and McCall's coming every month.  Mom enjoyed seeing that I got the Betsy McCall paper dolls from each magazine.  When I was old enough to read, she saw that I got Humpty Dumpty Magazine, Children's Digest, Highlights, Jack and Jill, American Girl.  She took us to the library, both the Ernie Pyle branch not far from our house and the downtown library.  As I mentioned, she supported my Nancy Drew habit.

Although my mother wasn't very demonstrative with love and affection, I know she was proud of her children and wanted the best for us.  You know, writing this has made me smile, remembering my mother.  That's a good thing.

Taking Care...or Not?

My father died in 2001, and we took care of my mother for five years.  She was an unhealthy diabetic who didn't care well for herself.  It was easier for us than most, we were able to hire people to be at her house-- at first during part of the day and the night until she went to bed.  Later we had someone in the house with her at all times.  For awhile, we had two major caretakers, Erin, the young, talkative woman who came during the day, and Mary, the calm, kind, dependable woman, who came in the evening. 

Erin wasn't the brightest bulb, as I especially noticed when she brought my mother Crispy Creme doughnuts so she wouldn't "need" her insulin.  Erin, I think, really liked being with my mother and treated her like friend, of sorts.  She brought her things and talked to her a lot.  She drove me crazy-- she pretty much did what she wanted-- bought a lot of junk food, and didn't always follow the rules.  In some ways, that was good for us.  She helped my mother take her insulin injections when she really shouldn't have.  At any rate, at some point I felt Erin was getting overinvoved and not doing a good job, so I asked that she not come back.

After a string of temporary people, we found an agency who had someone who would live in the house with mom, with someone covering her on her days off.  I don't remember her name, but she was a small, gruff person.  It was hard to like her, and her demeanor with my mom was much different than Erin's.  At the time, I thought this was better.  This lady turned out to be kind of lazy and not at all to mom's liking, and, was, in the end, the cause of her death.

My mother had several falls at night, both with Erin and the new lady.  My question was always, "Why didn't they hear my mom get up?"  She couldn't have done it quietly.  One winter morning my mother, who could barely walk around or do anything on her own, in her nightgown, unlocked the front door, pushed open the heavy screen door, went down the step she usually had trouble with, and ended up falling in the driveway, where some passerby found her and brought her in.  Where was her caregiver all of that time?

This incident put her in the hospital, and was, what I believe was responsible for her life ending.  She was never comfortable after that.  I blame her caregiver, and, to some extent, myself.  In retrospect, I think I may have deprived my mother of the one friend she had, the one who kept things light and interesting for her.  Perhaps I was jealous that she had more of a link with my mother than I had.  For some reason I thought my mother needed "tough love," rather than enjoyment and flexibility. 

I carry guilt-- for not loving her enough, for not having a close relationship with her, for perhaps precipitating the events that led to her death.  I think she was ready to go.  She sometimes talked of seeing my father.  She didn't have much, if any, enjoyment of life.  I don't know if I said goodbye.  Goodbye, mom.

The End of a Life/ The Beginning of a Story

Four years ago today my mother died. I wasn't sure about the exact date and had to call my brother to ask. Besides the reminder that she died right before Christmas, I thought of her because my friend's father died yesterday.

My brother, Richard, nephew, Nathan, and I were sitting in my mother's kitchen. Richard and Nathan, I think, were watching a movie on someone's laptop. My mother was sleeping under the influence of morphine in her hospital bed in the den. We knew the end had to come sometime. I went into the den to check on her. She was still, but breathing, I thought. Richard came in to check, and informed me that she wasn't breathing. She had gone sometime while we were socializing in the kitchen. There were tears, even though we were expecting this. I called Hospice,  and, I assume, my sister in Tucson. From there on I vaguely remember the sequence of things, but few details.

I was not overly emotional. We had had a long, hard haul with our mother, and her passing was somewhat of a relief for us and a release for her. Now I am recalling the feelings of the experience of her illness and her passing. Regret. Guilt. Very little obvious, overt love, although there is some love for my mother, some sweet memories and tenderness. Now, after four years, with the availability of this often blank blog, I feel the need to tell our story--my mother's and mine, or at least part of it.

Production

I just finished the ten books I'm bringing as gifts to my book group Christmas get together.  I probably wasn't as careful with them as I was with the batch of BCD books I made, but they're passable, bordering on nice.  It makes me think about perfection .  My initial thought is that mass production excludes perfection.  This isn't what I've been taught.  The assembly line provides, in a sense, mastery, at each stage.  So, then, was it because my project involved so many jobs that I did none of them with precision?  Multiplicity in tasks produces boredom, followed by disinterest, followed by deterioration of the product?

Finally!

I've thought about blogging this past three months--had ideas, experiences--even wrote some while Michael was in the hospital. I've had the interest, just not the discipline. Maybe tonight I have it all.

Today I took Caprice to an animal communicator. I didn't have a pressing need. I saw an ad at the pet store and thought I'd try it and maybe find out how Caprice was feeling and if anything hurt her. I don't know if I've ever believed in this, but it couldn't hurt. The woman started out by saying Caprice had lots of questions. Why was she here?

The communicator knew I had Canon and the ages of my dogs, so it was no surprise that she told me Caprice was annoyed with Canon. Why did I get him? She didn't like him sleeping on the bed. He took her toys. She wanted more walks. There were surprises. Caprice "said" She didn't play with toys anymore because of Canon. She had a pain in her rear area-- spine or leg, perhaps. This is something I've been worrying about, but hadn't mentioned. Her "daddy" doted more on Canon. Near closing she mentioned that there are lots of angels around Caprice. I wonder...

Real communication or not, there were some real reminders about what my dogs need--individual attention, more exercise and play. I'm glad to oblige...