Thursday, March 8, 2007
[Death] Stories I Tell My Mother - Part 3
Mom's Brother's Wife:
This relative is the one who isn't mentioned, yet, over at Death Dates because I don't have exact dates on her. She died sometime between 1986 and 1990, though, of this I am sure. Considering that she was older by some years than her husband and outlived him by at least 10 years, I estimate that she was in her late 70's when she died. It's an important death, though, primarily because Mom, alone within her family, looked out for this woman after Mom's brother, the woman's husband, died, was made executor of her will and, as a result, was intimately involved in her death. As well, whenever we talk about Mom's brother's death, she asks about this woman, so I tell her the story of her death.
"Remember, Mom, that in the last years of her life, oh, maybe about five or so, you were pretty much [Mom's sister-in-law]'s short distance caregiver [Mom lived very close to her] and pretty much her only significant relative and friend? Well, because of this, she made you the executor of her will.
"Although I was around at the time, I don't remember the exact circumstances of her death. I do remember that she not only remained a hypochondriac, but, during the last year or so of her life, called the paramedics so often for situations that they judged, over and over, to not be emergent that she was put on notice by them not to call unless she had a "genuine emergency". I also remember that a few months before she died she fell in her bathtub and spent some hours hollering through the walls for help until her next door neighbor came home and alerted the land lady."
"Oh, yes," Mom usually comments, "I remember all that."
"Truth is, I have no idea what her physical health was, although it seemed pretty poor..."
"...It was," Mom usually interjects, "and, she was an alcoholic, too."
"But, she died, and you were duly notified. I think it was her landlady who called you."
"I think so, too," Mom confirms.
"Do you remember what was her cause of death?"
"Nooo," Mom usually says, "it could have been any number of things."
"So, immediately after you were notified of her death, you called her son. For decades there had been a deep rift between him and [Mom's brother and his wife, who were their son's adopted parents] because of that problem when he was in Thailand, with his wife and son, there, and, remember, since he was in the military he had to seek permission from his parents to become officially married so that he could bring them back with him after his tour of duty, and they refused him permission. There was some additional stuff, too, about him finding out, at that time, that he was adopted..."
"...You know," Mom usually adds, "there are some who say that [Mom's brother] was his real father..."
"...yeah, I know. Anyway, it was a mess, and I remember that, initially, he refused to have anything to do with [Mom's sister-in-law]'s death and wasn't going to come out. Finally, although I can't remember why, he decided to come out from Florida and brought his oldest son and daughter with him."
"Oh, yes," she usually says. "It was so nice to meet them! I remember he told me that people call him 'Smitty' and I told him, 'That's what people used to call me.' He wasn't amused."
"I remember. So, immediately upon their arrival [Mom's nephew] pursued two goals: He tried really hard to involve you in Amway..."
Mom usually laughs, here, and says, "Ohhh, yes, I remember that!"
"...and announced that he wanted none of his mother's stuff, didn't want anything to do with settling her estate, he'd leave that up to you. That's how we ended up with a shed full of [Mom's sister-in-law]'s worldly goods. Remember that Kitchen Aid mixer from the 30's? The wooden drying rack? That box full of letters from [Mom's nephew] written when he was in Thailand during that critical time?"
"Did we keep those letters?" she always asks.
"You wanted me to throw them out, but, instead, my curiosity got the best of me and I read them all and decided to keep them."
"Good. I'm glad you did," she always says.
"Grandma and Grandpa had made arrangements to have her buried in their plot up in Prescott next to James."
"That's right."
"Well, that never happened. [Mom's nephew] and his son decided they wanted to scatter her ashes. They knew about Wind Cave, probably from visits [Mom's nephew] may have made many years previous. They decided to scatter her ashes from up there. That was the only service she had."
"Well, that's probably best," Mom sometimes says. "I don't think there were many people who would have attended a family service."
This relative is the one who isn't mentioned, yet, over at Death Dates because I don't have exact dates on her. She died sometime between 1986 and 1990, though, of this I am sure. Considering that she was older by some years than her husband and outlived him by at least 10 years, I estimate that she was in her late 70's when she died. It's an important death, though, primarily because Mom, alone within her family, looked out for this woman after Mom's brother, the woman's husband, died, was made executor of her will and, as a result, was intimately involved in her death. As well, whenever we talk about Mom's brother's death, she asks about this woman, so I tell her the story of her death.
"Remember, Mom, that in the last years of her life, oh, maybe about five or so, you were pretty much [Mom's sister-in-law]'s short distance caregiver [Mom lived very close to her] and pretty much her only significant relative and friend? Well, because of this, she made you the executor of her will.
"Although I was around at the time, I don't remember the exact circumstances of her death. I do remember that she not only remained a hypochondriac, but, during the last year or so of her life, called the paramedics so often for situations that they judged, over and over, to not be emergent that she was put on notice by them not to call unless she had a "genuine emergency". I also remember that a few months before she died she fell in her bathtub and spent some hours hollering through the walls for help until her next door neighbor came home and alerted the land lady."
"Oh, yes," Mom usually comments, "I remember all that."
"Truth is, I have no idea what her physical health was, although it seemed pretty poor..."
"...It was," Mom usually interjects, "and, she was an alcoholic, too."
"But, she died, and you were duly notified. I think it was her landlady who called you."
"I think so, too," Mom confirms.
"Do you remember what was her cause of death?"
"Nooo," Mom usually says, "it could have been any number of things."
"So, immediately after you were notified of her death, you called her son. For decades there had been a deep rift between him and [Mom's brother and his wife, who were their son's adopted parents] because of that problem when he was in Thailand, with his wife and son, there, and, remember, since he was in the military he had to seek permission from his parents to become officially married so that he could bring them back with him after his tour of duty, and they refused him permission. There was some additional stuff, too, about him finding out, at that time, that he was adopted..."
"...You know," Mom usually adds, "there are some who say that [Mom's brother] was his real father..."
"...yeah, I know. Anyway, it was a mess, and I remember that, initially, he refused to have anything to do with [Mom's sister-in-law]'s death and wasn't going to come out. Finally, although I can't remember why, he decided to come out from Florida and brought his oldest son and daughter with him."
"Oh, yes," she usually says. "It was so nice to meet them! I remember he told me that people call him 'Smitty' and I told him, 'That's what people used to call me.' He wasn't amused."
"I remember. So, immediately upon their arrival [Mom's nephew] pursued two goals: He tried really hard to involve you in Amway..."
Mom usually laughs, here, and says, "Ohhh, yes, I remember that!"
"...and announced that he wanted none of his mother's stuff, didn't want anything to do with settling her estate, he'd leave that up to you. That's how we ended up with a shed full of [Mom's sister-in-law]'s worldly goods. Remember that Kitchen Aid mixer from the 30's? The wooden drying rack? That box full of letters from [Mom's nephew] written when he was in Thailand during that critical time?"
"Did we keep those letters?" she always asks.
"You wanted me to throw them out, but, instead, my curiosity got the best of me and I read them all and decided to keep them."
"Good. I'm glad you did," she always says.
"Grandma and Grandpa had made arrangements to have her buried in their plot up in Prescott next to James."
"That's right."
"Well, that never happened. [Mom's nephew] and his son decided they wanted to scatter her ashes. They knew about Wind Cave, probably from visits [Mom's nephew] may have made many years previous. They decided to scatter her ashes from up there. That was the only service she had."
"Well, that's probably best," Mom sometimes says. "I don't think there were many people who would have attended a family service."
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
[Death] Stories I Tell My Mother - Part 2
Mom's Husband:
"I think it was about a year before his death when Dad's health took a sharp downturn. During that year you nursed him and you and he were sent all over the country on military transport, from veteran's hospital to veteran's hospital, while the doctors tried to treat him. I was living in Sacramento at that time and I remember that you guys even spent some time at the veteran's hospital close to where I lived."
"That's right. I remember," Mom usually says.
"The last veteran's hospital before his death was the one in Phoenix. I think he was taken there about a month before he died. I remember that, as the paramedics were wheeling him out of your home, he insisted on calling me. I was at work in Sacramento. By that time he wasn't able to eat, his body was almost completely broken down, and he was in misery. I still remember the phone call and the sound of his voice. I knew it would be the last time he and I talked. We didn't say much..."
"I don't think you could," Mom usually mentions. "They already had him on the carrier."
"Yeah, I know. I remember he told me what was happening, we told each other we loved each other and said good-bye.
"You kept me updated but there wasn't much to report. They knew he had an abdominal aneurysm but his liver had failed, almost everything in his body had failed as a result of his advanced alcoholism and his blood wouldn't clot. They kept him at the hospital as long as they could, hoping for the best, but when they finally decided there was nothing they could do, they recommended that he be moved to a nursing home, because you were no longer able to care for him. They arranged for him to be transferred to one in Mesa. As it turned out, it was the same one where Grandma lived before she died."
Sometimes, at this point, Mom will say, "Mother's dead?!?" and I'll remind her and assure her that I'll tell her about Grandma's death as soon as I finish with the story of Dad's death.
"Dad didn't want to go to the nursing home, I remember you telling me. He pleaded with you to just take him home, but everyone advised against this because you simply weren't physically able to take care of him and his military benefits, at that time, wouldn't cover in home nursing. I don't know if there was such a thing as hospice care at that time, but, regardless, that was never suggested.
"A date was set for his transfer. He continued to be set (sometimes I'll say "dead set", as, truly, that, as it turned out, is the most accurate description of his refusal) against the move.
"On the day he died, you were with him most of the day. You left sometime in the afternoon or evening. Since I wasn't there, I can't be sure; all of this is pretty much what I picked up from you and MPS. No sooner had you arrived home than the hospital called to say he'd died."
"That's right. I remember, now. They say that [someone dying just before they are slated to be transferred to a nursing home] happens often," Mom says.
"That's what I've heard, too. You called MPS and you and she went back to the hospital for your last visit. I remember MPS telling me that she saw Dad after he died. He had a bewildered expression on his face. I wish I had been there and seen him."
"Oh," she usually says, "it's better that you didn't. You wouldn't have recognized him."
"Well, I know he must have looked pretty wasted..."
"...that's putting it mildly," she usually mentions...
"...but, you know, even though he always used to say, as long as I can remember, 'Dealie [his nickname for me],' he'd say, 'I'll be dead in five years [he started saying this decades before he actually died], just bury me under the peach tree out back,' he was more frightened of death than anyone I've ever known."
"I remember. He was always saying that. I agree with you. He was very frightened of dying," Mom often interjects.
"I don't know why, but, for some reason, seeing his death mask would have put the final period on his life, for me."
"Well," Mom often says, "I suppose so, but it wasn't a pleasant sight. You wouldn't have been able to get it out of your mind. It would have been your last memory of him, and that just doesn't seem right."
"Anyway, I can't remember who called me, but I was the second to the last sister notified, I think, and I called the last one. We all congregated in Mesa. He was cremated, so we had a memorial service for him at that Methodist church behind the Los Arcos mall in Scottsdale. Only immediate family and relatives who lived close attended. I don't remember much about it, although I do remember that you asked me to read that poem I'd written for his birthday several years before."
"Yes. That's right," she usually says. "He liked that poem. He would read it to himself a lot. Do you remember it?"
I keep it handy, because her request is typical when I'm telling the story of Dad's death. At this point I find a copy of it and read it to her:
11 x 11 - 9 (64)
The best thing I ever found in the junkyard
in Sunnyvale where you and I would go on
Sunday was an empty Parker ink bottle.
I kept it for years. It cradled small treasures
with large meanings, things I was afraid I'd lose:
Mysterious stones, stray jewelry, a dwarf
jade Buddha. They've all become symbols since then.
The ink bottle was lost in moving. So, now,
my collection is on display in the place
where I store all the moments we've talked and touched
and all the things not yet mentioned between us.
"After Dad died," I continue, "MFS and her husband and MCS and her husband stayed on for awhile, helping you settle his affairs."
"That's right," she usually says, "they were such a big help."
"They were. When we're going through boxes we still, occasionally, run across lists of things that needed to be done, with notes about their progress and the items crossed off. [MFS's husband] was able to arrange to have Dad's ashes scattered at sea from the deck of a ship on which Dad once served and he and Dad had discussed. We have a video of the ceremony, with MFS scattering the ashes. Remember? At the moment MFS emptied the urn, an updraft from the side of the ship blew some of the ashes back at her."
"That's right. I imagine that happens often," Mom sometimes says. This is something we discuss frequently when I tell Dad's death story, speculating that any time someone scatters ashes over a promontorical edge, it's more likely than not that an updraft is going to scatter some of the ashes back at the scatterer. Usually this evolves into a discussion of [another of Mom's nephew's] scattering [Mom's brother's wife's] ashes from Wind Cave in Mesa, during which we wonder if the same thing happened to [Mom's nephew and his son].
"Some time later, you had a plaque installed at the Veteran's Cemetary in Carefree."
This is something that she never remembers, even though, after the plaque was installed, she visited it more than a few times. "Really?" she usually responds.
I confirm this for her and usually ask if she'd like to visit the plaque, again, sometime. She always says, "No, I don't think it's necessary." I've never seen the plaque.
Often, as we wind up the story of Dad's death, Mom will say, "He was so young when he died." From the perspective of her ancestors and siblings, this is certainly true, although within Dad's family, most of his siblings and ancestors died in their 60's.
Mom's Mother:
"After Grandpa's death, you and [Mom's sister's family] took turns staying with Grandma up in Prescott, as it was clear she was confused by Grandpa's death and was becoming more confused as time went on, although no one considered that she was descending into severe dementia. After a while, though, in order to make it easier on everyone and have Grandma close, [Mom's sister's family] sold her house in Prescott and bought her a mobile home in that little park off Miller Road in Scottsdale, just north of McKellips."
"Oh, yes. There was barely enough room in that home for Grandma and all her stuff," Mom usually mentions.
"As time went on, all of you began to notice that Grandma was becoming increasingly agitated, hiding things, refusing to let people in, sometimes not recognizing people. A round-the-clock watch was established. Finally, it was decided that it would be best for Grandma to move in with [My mother's sister's family]. She began to wander, and require more and more care. They built a room for her off their house, sort of like an efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and everything. The watch continued, and, as I recall, they also had professionals look after her, because everyone had full time jobs and part of this was during the time when you were taking care of Dad."
"I remember," Mom usually says. "I think you're right about that. That was a nice little apartment they built for Mother."
"Grandma continued to progress further into dementia. I remember her having hallucinations of flowers on everything; wanting to 'go, go, go' all the time; worrying about you 'out there in Mesa with no men,' and asking 'Where are all the men?'"
Mom usually smiles at this and we often talk about how this must have startled [Mom's sister's husband and adult son], as they were, clearly, men, but they weren't the men Grandma recognized, anymore.
"Anyway, about six months before she died, Grandma's care was so intense that it was decided to move her into a nursing home, the same one Dad would have gone into if he hadn't died the day before he was to be transferred. It was very close to where you lived in Mesa, so you visited her almost every day. By that time, I was back in the Phoenix metroplex and I'd often go with you. She was completely lost in her dementia, by that time, often spending hours at a time in a fetal position. When the staff was able to get her out of bed and into a wheelchair, we'd take her to that screened in courtyard and wheel her around, in order to give her the impression that she was 'going' someplace. There were birds that lived in the courtyard. I remember one time one of the birds landed on the arm of her wheelchair. It sat there for a long time. Grandma was fascinated with it. She couldn't keep her eyes off it and babbled on for awhile to it, or, maybe, about it. Neither of us was sure."
"That's right," Mom will say. "I remember!"
"When the bird flew away, Grandma followed it with her eyes until she could no longer see it. You and I talked about how maybe Grandma wasn't completely lost to reality.
"I'm not exactly sure what the final word was on how she died. By that time, she was in her bed constantly. Everything was being done for her. It's funny, too, because I have no memory of her funeral, even though I was there. I don't know whether she was cremated, I know she was buried up in Prescott with Grandpa and [Mom's brother] but I don't remember anything about the burial, except driving to the site."
Mom usually says at this point, "I don't even remember that." Then, after thinking a bit, she'll usually say, "That was a nice nursing home."
As my memory serves, it actually wasn't. Although the courtyard was pretty decent, it was hardly ever used. The setting was very clinical. It was one of those hidden institutions, hard to get to, parking was sparse, it was loaded to the gills with residents, the staff was fairly sparse, extremely officious and rarely to be seen unless someone decided to venture into the halls on their own, which was discouraged. My recollection tells me it was relatively clean but clearly a holding and hiding tank for people who appeared to have been abandoned. I remember meeting and talking with one resident, a woman who was there because she'd fallen and broken her hip. She was not demented, her hip had healed as much as it was going to, she was probably in her 70's or 80's, would often try to venture into the halls to meet people and was almost always being ushered back to her room. I caught her eye, one day, and followed her back to her room. I remember her telling me that she didn't like living there but had no one with whom she could live, shrugging her shoulders and rhetorically asking, "What are you going to do?"
In retrospect, I consider that it's possible that my memories of visiting my maternal grandmother at this institution figured prominently in my decision to be my mother's final companion.
More...
...later.
"I think it was about a year before his death when Dad's health took a sharp downturn. During that year you nursed him and you and he were sent all over the country on military transport, from veteran's hospital to veteran's hospital, while the doctors tried to treat him. I was living in Sacramento at that time and I remember that you guys even spent some time at the veteran's hospital close to where I lived."
"That's right. I remember," Mom usually says.
"The last veteran's hospital before his death was the one in Phoenix. I think he was taken there about a month before he died. I remember that, as the paramedics were wheeling him out of your home, he insisted on calling me. I was at work in Sacramento. By that time he wasn't able to eat, his body was almost completely broken down, and he was in misery. I still remember the phone call and the sound of his voice. I knew it would be the last time he and I talked. We didn't say much..."
"I don't think you could," Mom usually mentions. "They already had him on the carrier."
"Yeah, I know. I remember he told me what was happening, we told each other we loved each other and said good-bye.
"You kept me updated but there wasn't much to report. They knew he had an abdominal aneurysm but his liver had failed, almost everything in his body had failed as a result of his advanced alcoholism and his blood wouldn't clot. They kept him at the hospital as long as they could, hoping for the best, but when they finally decided there was nothing they could do, they recommended that he be moved to a nursing home, because you were no longer able to care for him. They arranged for him to be transferred to one in Mesa. As it turned out, it was the same one where Grandma lived before she died."
Sometimes, at this point, Mom will say, "Mother's dead?!?" and I'll remind her and assure her that I'll tell her about Grandma's death as soon as I finish with the story of Dad's death.
"Dad didn't want to go to the nursing home, I remember you telling me. He pleaded with you to just take him home, but everyone advised against this because you simply weren't physically able to take care of him and his military benefits, at that time, wouldn't cover in home nursing. I don't know if there was such a thing as hospice care at that time, but, regardless, that was never suggested.
"A date was set for his transfer. He continued to be set (sometimes I'll say "dead set", as, truly, that, as it turned out, is the most accurate description of his refusal) against the move.
"On the day he died, you were with him most of the day. You left sometime in the afternoon or evening. Since I wasn't there, I can't be sure; all of this is pretty much what I picked up from you and MPS. No sooner had you arrived home than the hospital called to say he'd died."
"That's right. I remember, now. They say that [someone dying just before they are slated to be transferred to a nursing home] happens often," Mom says.
"That's what I've heard, too. You called MPS and you and she went back to the hospital for your last visit. I remember MPS telling me that she saw Dad after he died. He had a bewildered expression on his face. I wish I had been there and seen him."
"Oh," she usually says, "it's better that you didn't. You wouldn't have recognized him."
"Well, I know he must have looked pretty wasted..."
"...that's putting it mildly," she usually mentions...
"...but, you know, even though he always used to say, as long as I can remember, 'Dealie [his nickname for me],' he'd say, 'I'll be dead in five years [he started saying this decades before he actually died], just bury me under the peach tree out back,' he was more frightened of death than anyone I've ever known."
"I remember. He was always saying that. I agree with you. He was very frightened of dying," Mom often interjects.
"I don't know why, but, for some reason, seeing his death mask would have put the final period on his life, for me."
"Well," Mom often says, "I suppose so, but it wasn't a pleasant sight. You wouldn't have been able to get it out of your mind. It would have been your last memory of him, and that just doesn't seem right."
"Anyway, I can't remember who called me, but I was the second to the last sister notified, I think, and I called the last one. We all congregated in Mesa. He was cremated, so we had a memorial service for him at that Methodist church behind the Los Arcos mall in Scottsdale. Only immediate family and relatives who lived close attended. I don't remember much about it, although I do remember that you asked me to read that poem I'd written for his birthday several years before."
"Yes. That's right," she usually says. "He liked that poem. He would read it to himself a lot. Do you remember it?"
I keep it handy, because her request is typical when I'm telling the story of Dad's death. At this point I find a copy of it and read it to her:
11 x 11 - 9 (64)
The best thing I ever found in the junkyard
in Sunnyvale where you and I would go on
Sunday was an empty Parker ink bottle.
I kept it for years. It cradled small treasures
with large meanings, things I was afraid I'd lose:
Mysterious stones, stray jewelry, a dwarf
jade Buddha. They've all become symbols since then.
The ink bottle was lost in moving. So, now,
my collection is on display in the place
where I store all the moments we've talked and touched
and all the things not yet mentioned between us.
"After Dad died," I continue, "MFS and her husband and MCS and her husband stayed on for awhile, helping you settle his affairs."
"That's right," she usually says, "they were such a big help."
"They were. When we're going through boxes we still, occasionally, run across lists of things that needed to be done, with notes about their progress and the items crossed off. [MFS's husband] was able to arrange to have Dad's ashes scattered at sea from the deck of a ship on which Dad once served and he and Dad had discussed. We have a video of the ceremony, with MFS scattering the ashes. Remember? At the moment MFS emptied the urn, an updraft from the side of the ship blew some of the ashes back at her."
"That's right. I imagine that happens often," Mom sometimes says. This is something we discuss frequently when I tell Dad's death story, speculating that any time someone scatters ashes over a promontorical edge, it's more likely than not that an updraft is going to scatter some of the ashes back at the scatterer. Usually this evolves into a discussion of [another of Mom's nephew's] scattering [Mom's brother's wife's] ashes from Wind Cave in Mesa, during which we wonder if the same thing happened to [Mom's nephew and his son].
"Some time later, you had a plaque installed at the Veteran's Cemetary in Carefree."
This is something that she never remembers, even though, after the plaque was installed, she visited it more than a few times. "Really?" she usually responds.
I confirm this for her and usually ask if she'd like to visit the plaque, again, sometime. She always says, "No, I don't think it's necessary." I've never seen the plaque.
Often, as we wind up the story of Dad's death, Mom will say, "He was so young when he died." From the perspective of her ancestors and siblings, this is certainly true, although within Dad's family, most of his siblings and ancestors died in their 60's.
Mom's Mother:
"After Grandpa's death, you and [Mom's sister's family] took turns staying with Grandma up in Prescott, as it was clear she was confused by Grandpa's death and was becoming more confused as time went on, although no one considered that she was descending into severe dementia. After a while, though, in order to make it easier on everyone and have Grandma close, [Mom's sister's family] sold her house in Prescott and bought her a mobile home in that little park off Miller Road in Scottsdale, just north of McKellips."
"Oh, yes. There was barely enough room in that home for Grandma and all her stuff," Mom usually mentions.
"As time went on, all of you began to notice that Grandma was becoming increasingly agitated, hiding things, refusing to let people in, sometimes not recognizing people. A round-the-clock watch was established. Finally, it was decided that it would be best for Grandma to move in with [My mother's sister's family]. She began to wander, and require more and more care. They built a room for her off their house, sort of like an efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and everything. The watch continued, and, as I recall, they also had professionals look after her, because everyone had full time jobs and part of this was during the time when you were taking care of Dad."
"I remember," Mom usually says. "I think you're right about that. That was a nice little apartment they built for Mother."
"Grandma continued to progress further into dementia. I remember her having hallucinations of flowers on everything; wanting to 'go, go, go' all the time; worrying about you 'out there in Mesa with no men,' and asking 'Where are all the men?'"
Mom usually smiles at this and we often talk about how this must have startled [Mom's sister's husband and adult son], as they were, clearly, men, but they weren't the men Grandma recognized, anymore.
"Anyway, about six months before she died, Grandma's care was so intense that it was decided to move her into a nursing home, the same one Dad would have gone into if he hadn't died the day before he was to be transferred. It was very close to where you lived in Mesa, so you visited her almost every day. By that time, I was back in the Phoenix metroplex and I'd often go with you. She was completely lost in her dementia, by that time, often spending hours at a time in a fetal position. When the staff was able to get her out of bed and into a wheelchair, we'd take her to that screened in courtyard and wheel her around, in order to give her the impression that she was 'going' someplace. There were birds that lived in the courtyard. I remember one time one of the birds landed on the arm of her wheelchair. It sat there for a long time. Grandma was fascinated with it. She couldn't keep her eyes off it and babbled on for awhile to it, or, maybe, about it. Neither of us was sure."
"That's right," Mom will say. "I remember!"
"When the bird flew away, Grandma followed it with her eyes until she could no longer see it. You and I talked about how maybe Grandma wasn't completely lost to reality.
"I'm not exactly sure what the final word was on how she died. By that time, she was in her bed constantly. Everything was being done for her. It's funny, too, because I have no memory of her funeral, even though I was there. I don't know whether she was cremated, I know she was buried up in Prescott with Grandpa and [Mom's brother] but I don't remember anything about the burial, except driving to the site."
Mom usually says at this point, "I don't even remember that." Then, after thinking a bit, she'll usually say, "That was a nice nursing home."
As my memory serves, it actually wasn't. Although the courtyard was pretty decent, it was hardly ever used. The setting was very clinical. It was one of those hidden institutions, hard to get to, parking was sparse, it was loaded to the gills with residents, the staff was fairly sparse, extremely officious and rarely to be seen unless someone decided to venture into the halls on their own, which was discouraged. My recollection tells me it was relatively clean but clearly a holding and hiding tank for people who appeared to have been abandoned. I remember meeting and talking with one resident, a woman who was there because she'd fallen and broken her hip. She was not demented, her hip had healed as much as it was going to, she was probably in her 70's or 80's, would often try to venture into the halls to meet people and was almost always being ushered back to her room. I caught her eye, one day, and followed her back to her room. I remember her telling me that she didn't like living there but had no one with whom she could live, shrugging her shoulders and rhetorically asking, "What are you going to do?"
In retrospect, I consider that it's possible that my memories of visiting my maternal grandmother at this institution figured prominently in my decision to be my mother's final companion.
More...
...later.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
[Death] Stories I Tell My Mother - Part 1
The word "family" means something unique to each of us; so much so that it's not uncommon for us to disagree on the meaning of "family", even within our own families. There is, however, one meaning that applies to everyone: "Family" is synonymous with "story". No matter who we are, no matter how we perceive and reperceive our families, no matter how many families of which we consider ourselves a part, no matter whether we perceive ourselves as having or not having a family, each of us has a family story, or, rather, a set of stories that come to mind when we utter the word "family".
Yesterday, when I was, yet again, reminding my mother of certain deaths in her family, I realized that with each death of which I'm aware, usually because I was in my mother's vicinity when the death occurred, I relate it as a story. I have a reason for this: When I remind her of the death I include details that I know will trigger my mother's memory. Hmmm..., I decided yesterday, maybe I ought to record the stories I tell so they won't be lost with my mother or me. So, here they are.
A bit of prologue: Most of these stories are about deaths recorded in the Death Dates post. Not all the deaths recorded there have stories attached, since at least two of the deaths occurred before I was a gleam in my mother's eye. One death story, which I often tell, doesn't match a death recorded in the previously mentioned post because I haven't yet recovered appropriate dates, although it is an important death and, one of these days, I expect it will be recorded over there. For those stories which match a record in the Death Dates post, I will provide, after the fact of this being initially published, reciprocal links here and there. As well, I'll be recording them in chronological order. I'm also going to try to record them as close to the way I tell them as possible. Some of these details may be in other areas of my journals or histories, but I'll collect them all here in the name of completeness. In some cases, I may include typical comments that Mom offers during particular sections of each story.
Let us begin.
Mom's Brother:
"I was living at that little apartment attached to a house on 14th Street and Diamond in Phoenix, the one [Mom's only niece through her siblings] had rented before I took it over. You and Dad had come to visit family from the farm in Wichita Falls, I think...although, I'm not sure if you still owned that place. Maybe you were living in El Paso by then."
"I'm not sure, either," Mom usually says. "We should look that up."
"Yeah, we should. Anyway, you and Dad had spent the entire day visiting with [Mom's brother and his wife] at their apartment in Mesa. I wasn't there during the visit. That evening you came back to my place and we were out on the patio heating up the grill to cook steaks for dinner. Even though everything had seemed copacetic during your visit with [Mom's brother and his wife]..."
"...as copacetic as possible," Mom often interjects, referring to the fact that her brother had been in various stages of ill health for decades, his wife was never the most pleasant person alive, being a hypochondriac on both her and her husband's behalf and, as well, chronically unable to say anything about anyone without carping and complaining...
"...[Mom's brother's wife] was calling us incessantly, about once every 15 minutes."
"Oh, yes, I remember, now," Mom usually says at this point, a crooked little smile overtaking the edges of her mouth.
"Anyway, after several of these calls, yet another call came through. You said you'd go ahead and answer it, since it was probably from [Mom's brother's wife]. While you were in the apartment, Dad and I had a conversation about what in the world [Mom's brother's wife] could find to call about, now, since it seemed as though she had covered just about everything. We posed a delightfully nasty little scenario about how, maybe this time, [Mom's brother's wife] was calling to say, 'I think [Mom's brother] is dead! I think [Mom's brother] is dead!' just to get you guys to come back over to their apartment."
"Oh, yes, that's right," Mom usually says, with just the lightest touch of irony.
"And, sure enough..."
"That's what she called about..." Mom says...
"...and, this time, it turned out to be true. So, we doused the grill, piled into your car and headed to Mesa. I'm not sure how it happened, since it's a little more than a hop, skip and jump from where I lived in Phoenix to their place in Mesa, but we arrived on the heels of the paramedics."
Mom usually mentions, "I think [Mom's brother's wife] may have delayed calling them."
"This is where my memory gets a little hazy. On the one hand, I remember that [Mom's brother] was still alive and that you were able to speak to him as he was being wheeled on the gurney to the ambulance. On the other hand, I recall you having said, since, that he was dead when they wheeled him out."
Mom usually nods at this and says, "I don't really remember, either."
"Anyway, I do know that he was pronounced dead at Mesa Lutheran hospital, which is where they took him. You spent the night with [Mom's brother's wife] and Dad and I went back to my apartment. He and I spent the night trying to make ourselves feel guilty about our nasty little guess, even though we were actually delighted with ourselves."
"I'm sure you were," Mom always says, rolling her eyes.
"I also recall that [Mom's brother] officially died of heart failure, but had been sick from many things for years as a result of advanced alcoholism, including having suffered a number of heart attacks for which he never sought treatment.
"I don't remember too much about the funeral."
"Neither do I," Mom usually mentions.
"I do remember that only immediate family who lived in the area attended and that there was a graveside service where he was buried at Grandma and Grandpa's plot here in Prescott."
Mom's Father:
"Grandma and Grandpa had been staying with [Mom's sister's family] in Scottsdale, as they always did during the winter and spring, since moving to Prescott in the late 60's. Some days prior to Grandpa's death he complained that he wasn't feeling well, so they took him into Scottsdale Memorial hospital. He was kept overnight for observation and treated for dehydration, I think..."
"Yes, I think that's right..." Mom says...
"...and released the next day. Everything seemed fine and life went on as usual. Then, a some days later, everyone noticed that he, again, wasn't looking very good and didn't seem to have any energy, so they took him into the hospital again, and again he was kept for observation. That was the night he died, in the hospital. You were called immediately upon his death and went over to [Mom's sister's house] to spend the night. You slept on the couch. That was also the night that Silly [one of Mom's sister's family's cats] decided to teach T.K. [one of their younger cats] how to hunt. When you awoke the next morning, T.K. had laid his first kill, a sparrow, beside your head and was sitting there waiting for you to awaken and congratulate him on his kill."
This is when Mom typically grins and says, "Oh, yes, I remember that!"
"Anyway, although the family story was pretty much that Grandpa died of old age, I remember something mentioned about an abdominal aneurysm and bleeding out."
"I think I remember that, too," she usually says.
"Relatives came from all over the country for his funeral, which was held in Prescott."
"That's right," Mom usually responds, with a far away smile on her face.
"That was the event at which [Mom's cousin with whom she went to college at Cornell and who also became a teacher] said, 'It's a good thing people die in this family, or we'd never see each other!'"
Mom usually laughs as she remembers this.
"Grandpa was also late for his own funeral, remember? [Mom's nephew by her sister] was responsible for bring the ashes up to Prescott, where the funeral was held, and got halfway up the mountain on his motorcycle when he realized that he'd left the ashes at home, so he went back to get them."
"Dad would've loved that," she always says.
"Anyway, his funeral was one of those Family Parties of Legend. Grandma's and Grandpa's house was bursting with people. It was the last true [Mom's maiden surname] family reunion. I met relatives, there, I never knew existed. I'll never forget it."
"Neither will I," Mom always says, and, as long as I'm alive, I'll see to it that she never does. I believe it was this funeral, with all its gaiety and sparkle, that led her, later, to specify in her will that she wants everyone, at her funeral, to party on her.
It's getting on toward my bedtime. Bear with me while I republish a couple of times to establish reciprocal links. I'll continue with more death stories...
...later.
Yesterday, when I was, yet again, reminding my mother of certain deaths in her family, I realized that with each death of which I'm aware, usually because I was in my mother's vicinity when the death occurred, I relate it as a story. I have a reason for this: When I remind her of the death I include details that I know will trigger my mother's memory. Hmmm..., I decided yesterday, maybe I ought to record the stories I tell so they won't be lost with my mother or me. So, here they are.
A bit of prologue: Most of these stories are about deaths recorded in the Death Dates post. Not all the deaths recorded there have stories attached, since at least two of the deaths occurred before I was a gleam in my mother's eye. One death story, which I often tell, doesn't match a death recorded in the previously mentioned post because I haven't yet recovered appropriate dates, although it is an important death and, one of these days, I expect it will be recorded over there. For those stories which match a record in the Death Dates post, I will provide, after the fact of this being initially published, reciprocal links here and there. As well, I'll be recording them in chronological order. I'm also going to try to record them as close to the way I tell them as possible. Some of these details may be in other areas of my journals or histories, but I'll collect them all here in the name of completeness. In some cases, I may include typical comments that Mom offers during particular sections of each story.
Let us begin.
Mom's Brother:
"I was living at that little apartment attached to a house on 14th Street and Diamond in Phoenix, the one [Mom's only niece through her siblings] had rented before I took it over. You and Dad had come to visit family from the farm in Wichita Falls, I think...although, I'm not sure if you still owned that place. Maybe you were living in El Paso by then."
"I'm not sure, either," Mom usually says. "We should look that up."
"Yeah, we should. Anyway, you and Dad had spent the entire day visiting with [Mom's brother and his wife] at their apartment in Mesa. I wasn't there during the visit. That evening you came back to my place and we were out on the patio heating up the grill to cook steaks for dinner. Even though everything had seemed copacetic during your visit with [Mom's brother and his wife]..."
"...as copacetic as possible," Mom often interjects, referring to the fact that her brother had been in various stages of ill health for decades, his wife was never the most pleasant person alive, being a hypochondriac on both her and her husband's behalf and, as well, chronically unable to say anything about anyone without carping and complaining...
"...[Mom's brother's wife] was calling us incessantly, about once every 15 minutes."
"Oh, yes, I remember, now," Mom usually says at this point, a crooked little smile overtaking the edges of her mouth.
"Anyway, after several of these calls, yet another call came through. You said you'd go ahead and answer it, since it was probably from [Mom's brother's wife]. While you were in the apartment, Dad and I had a conversation about what in the world [Mom's brother's wife] could find to call about, now, since it seemed as though she had covered just about everything. We posed a delightfully nasty little scenario about how, maybe this time, [Mom's brother's wife] was calling to say, 'I think [Mom's brother] is dead! I think [Mom's brother] is dead!' just to get you guys to come back over to their apartment."
"Oh, yes, that's right," Mom usually says, with just the lightest touch of irony.
"And, sure enough..."
"That's what she called about..." Mom says...
"...and, this time, it turned out to be true. So, we doused the grill, piled into your car and headed to Mesa. I'm not sure how it happened, since it's a little more than a hop, skip and jump from where I lived in Phoenix to their place in Mesa, but we arrived on the heels of the paramedics."
Mom usually mentions, "I think [Mom's brother's wife] may have delayed calling them."
"This is where my memory gets a little hazy. On the one hand, I remember that [Mom's brother] was still alive and that you were able to speak to him as he was being wheeled on the gurney to the ambulance. On the other hand, I recall you having said, since, that he was dead when they wheeled him out."
Mom usually nods at this and says, "I don't really remember, either."
"Anyway, I do know that he was pronounced dead at Mesa Lutheran hospital, which is where they took him. You spent the night with [Mom's brother's wife] and Dad and I went back to my apartment. He and I spent the night trying to make ourselves feel guilty about our nasty little guess, even though we were actually delighted with ourselves."
"I'm sure you were," Mom always says, rolling her eyes.
"I also recall that [Mom's brother] officially died of heart failure, but had been sick from many things for years as a result of advanced alcoholism, including having suffered a number of heart attacks for which he never sought treatment.
"I don't remember too much about the funeral."
"Neither do I," Mom usually mentions.
"I do remember that only immediate family who lived in the area attended and that there was a graveside service where he was buried at Grandma and Grandpa's plot here in Prescott."
Mom's Father:
"Grandma and Grandpa had been staying with [Mom's sister's family] in Scottsdale, as they always did during the winter and spring, since moving to Prescott in the late 60's. Some days prior to Grandpa's death he complained that he wasn't feeling well, so they took him into Scottsdale Memorial hospital. He was kept overnight for observation and treated for dehydration, I think..."
"Yes, I think that's right..." Mom says...
"...and released the next day. Everything seemed fine and life went on as usual. Then, a some days later, everyone noticed that he, again, wasn't looking very good and didn't seem to have any energy, so they took him into the hospital again, and again he was kept for observation. That was the night he died, in the hospital. You were called immediately upon his death and went over to [Mom's sister's house] to spend the night. You slept on the couch. That was also the night that Silly [one of Mom's sister's family's cats] decided to teach T.K. [one of their younger cats] how to hunt. When you awoke the next morning, T.K. had laid his first kill, a sparrow, beside your head and was sitting there waiting for you to awaken and congratulate him on his kill."
This is when Mom typically grins and says, "Oh, yes, I remember that!"
"Anyway, although the family story was pretty much that Grandpa died of old age, I remember something mentioned about an abdominal aneurysm and bleeding out."
"I think I remember that, too," she usually says.
"Relatives came from all over the country for his funeral, which was held in Prescott."
"That's right," Mom usually responds, with a far away smile on her face.
"That was the event at which [Mom's cousin with whom she went to college at Cornell and who also became a teacher] said, 'It's a good thing people die in this family, or we'd never see each other!'"
Mom usually laughs as she remembers this.
"Grandpa was also late for his own funeral, remember? [Mom's nephew by her sister] was responsible for bring the ashes up to Prescott, where the funeral was held, and got halfway up the mountain on his motorcycle when he realized that he'd left the ashes at home, so he went back to get them."
"Dad would've loved that," she always says.
"Anyway, his funeral was one of those Family Parties of Legend. Grandma's and Grandpa's house was bursting with people. It was the last true [Mom's maiden surname] family reunion. I met relatives, there, I never knew existed. I'll never forget it."
"Neither will I," Mom always says, and, as long as I'm alive, I'll see to it that she never does. I believe it was this funeral, with all its gaiety and sparkle, that led her, later, to specify in her will that she wants everyone, at her funeral, to party on her.
It's getting on toward my bedtime. Bear with me while I republish a couple of times to establish reciprocal links. I'll continue with more death stories...
...later.
Guest Hosting at The Unforgettable Fund
I'm one of the online journalists Patty McNally Doherty asked to guest host her blog at The Unforgettable Fund while she's away. Today she published my contribution. It was preceded by a contribution from Deb Peterson who writes The Yellow Wallpaper. My expectation is that Deb's and my essays will be followed by contributions from two other online journalists listed in this post at The Unforgettable Fund. As they appear, I'll link to their essays, as well.
Patty McNally Doherty is well known throughout the Alzheimer's and Caregiver's Blogging Universe as an articulate, thoughtful essayist, commenter and compassionate supporter. Her website is also the portal to a non-profit philanthropic effort to collect money to the purpose of funding medical research directed at treating and eventually disabling Alzheimer's and related dementias. Her site and posts cover a wide range of issues related to Alzheimer's and caregiving, including an eye opening post researched by her husband, Allan, on the economics of Alzheimer's and a video documenting her family's struggle with her father's Alzheimer's, as well as monthly updates on the The Fund and a series of posts documenting the etiology of Alzheimer's for the lay person. Check it out when you have a chance.
Later.
Patty McNally Doherty is well known throughout the Alzheimer's and Caregiver's Blogging Universe as an articulate, thoughtful essayist, commenter and compassionate supporter. Her website is also the portal to a non-profit philanthropic effort to collect money to the purpose of funding medical research directed at treating and eventually disabling Alzheimer's and related dementias. Her site and posts cover a wide range of issues related to Alzheimer's and caregiving, including an eye opening post researched by her husband, Allan, on the economics of Alzheimer's and a video documenting her family's struggle with her father's Alzheimer's, as well as monthly updates on the The Fund and a series of posts documenting the etiology of Alzheimer's for the lay person. Check it out when you have a chance.
Later.
