Living A Long Life

April 1^st, was my mother’s birthday. She passed away at the age of ninety-nine. I miss her every day. She was born in 1918 during World War 1, lived through the Great Depression, was a nurse in London during World War 2. In the 1950’s she became an avid fan of Elvis Presley, then in the 1960’s The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Above all she loved watching boxing, her favorite boxer was Floyd Patterson. She lived through the sexual revolution, she watched the moon landing, traveled through Europe and the US.  Every day she read her horoscope. She believes in spirits. White flowers were banned in her house because a gift of white flowers was given a few hours before a telephone call that her father had died. She was convinced he would have lived if she had not brought those flowers into the house. 

As long as I can remember, she loved gambling small sums on horses. On a visit to Santa Anita racetrack in California, she won $150 on a five-dollar bet.  Her secret to success was finding names of horses that relate to something in her life. She would bet on a horse called March Surprise because March was when my sister was born. Not that money ever really meant much to her, she seemed to get the greatest joy in giving it away. Every charity that had a photo of some unfortunate, she subscribed to, telling me “You were born with nothing, you will leave this earth with nothing”.  

My mother was the second youngest of six children born on a farm in Ireland. All had died, as did her friends but she soldiered on. That in itself is something of a miracle. She was hospitalized in 1930s for pneumonia and nearly died. At 80, she was thrown across a bus that stopped unexpectedly. She broke her hip and lost half the blood in her body. The doctors were mystified how she managed to survive. When she returned for a check-up, they were even more surprised as her vital signs were strong, even though she smoked cigarettes since age 18. My mother was something of a medical marvel at the local hospital.  

Dad and Mom were married in 1949, they stayed together 52 years. Dad died at home, sitting on the couch while my mom was making him a cup of tea on September 10 2001. It is a date I cannot forget because the following day was September 11. When Dad died it seemed the world changed and an era ended. 

Now years later, another era is ended. I visited my mother in January, 2011, she was in the process of moving from our home into an apartment. The stairs in our home were becoming too much for her, also she was entering the early phases of Dementia. I spent a week with her, in that time she ghosted in and out of reality. She heard voices of people apparently next door talking about her, then would tell me that “she needed to go to the market to get something for your dad’s dinner, he will be home soon”. Gently I told her

“Mom, he died over ten years ago.” she looked at me and said;

“Then why didn’t anyone tell me”.

 I had to remind her we both buried him in Ireland, then she asked about her brother, “he’s dead too”, and Molly “she died too,” “she didn’t oh my God they are all dying” she would say. Mom, I said slowly “Molly, John and Michael all died in 1996”, she looked at me puzzled “Then who is running the farm at home” she asked. I had to tell her that a neighbor had convinced one of her brothers to give him sole title and sign it over to him. We had lost it.

 “My father would be furious, if he knew that, there would be hell to pay”. “So, there is no-one left, I’m the last one” she would say.

 “Yes, Mom you outlived all of them.” This scenario would be repeated over and over with minor variations and voices speaking to her through the walls.

During the day, the daughters and grand-daughters of her long dead friends visit. They all love her, love her because she is a character, but also because she is the last link to a now long dead close relative.  They admired, she has lived in the same neighborhood for over 40 years, everyone knew her by sight. In their eyes, she was living proof that old age doesn’t have to be dreaded, but they too began to see the cracks in her sanity. One neighbor found her looking confused and lost, another she told she had just returned from an imaginary holiday in Spain. They kept an eye to make sure she got home safely.

Watching a parent slowly lose their grip on reality was an emotionally gut-wrenching experience. They were the pillar you could always lean on, that pillar was crumbling. It wasn’t all doom and gloom.

On the second day of my visit, I decided to call a cab and go for ride around town. First, we got her hair done, then we went to a restaurant to eat. She often forgot to eat, and seeing her clean a plate of vegetables, roast beef and potatoes not only seemed to make her more alert, but I could see she was enjoying the moment. There we were talking about life, the newspaper gossip and laughing. She was present in reality enjoying the moment with her son. Whether she would remember it a few hours later did not matter. I was grasping, holding on to the mother I knew and loved, to moments that we had shared a thousand times before, but now were soon to end. We read our horoscopes, bought the Racing Form and had a flutter on the horses. We walked around town looking in shop windows, bought some food at market. I called a cab when she got tired and we went back to her place. Not long after, she lay down and fell asleep. It was then that a great sadness welled up, mixed with gratitude, I had been given an encore performance of the one woman play that was my mother. I didn’t know how many encore performances I would be allowed.  

We spent the next five days doing the simple things we had always done, buying bread at the bakery, reading the newspaper, betting on horses, living in the moment, knowing that each was a gift and that anytime soon these simple pleasures would pass.