For Sunday, December 5, 2010 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 820 words



Tribute to my mother

I went home for the holidays. I flew back to rural Pennsylvania see my ailing mother, Boots. She got moved out of her beautiful Ridgway house and into the Elk Haven Rest Home. She is 84. Her heart is weak. Her blood pressure is low. She lies with her feet elevated. The doctor said she’s terminal. She may have only a few months left.

My sisters informed me that she’d been fading in and out, talking loopy from time to time. They said, “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t recognize you.” But she did recognize me and was in good spirits. We talked and held hands all morning. I came to see her every day for the entire week, except one, and I stayed long times.

At the end of the week she told her roommate’s daughter, “My son has only been here to see me for ten minutes. Then he went out gallivanting around.” Thanks, ma.

Often she talked about coming home. She decried the monotony of lying on her back day after day staring at drop ceiling. She said, “As soon as I get well, and can walk again, we will go for a drive.”

The nurses told me that won’t be happening. Boots’s legs have given out. She wants to be put in a wheel chair, but then she complains of the pain and discomfort, and asks to be put back in bed. “You’re welcome to give it a try,” the nurse dared me with a grim smile.

Instead I told mom of the long drive we would take together. We would go see the elk herds. We would drive out to Parker Dam and Sandy Beach and Bendigo. We would see the fall colors. She could roll down her window and let the fall breezes blow her hair. She liked that idea. She could make her favorite meatloaf.

“Look at my arms. Look how thin I am. How did I get so old?”

“Luck, ma. Sheer luck. Count your blessings.”

I tried to visit around meal times. She had a hard time handling her food. It gave me great satisfaction to feed her and wipe her chin. At last I was able to give back what she had given me. I swear, If I could suddenly live there with no distractions I would take her home with me. I would set her up in her own bedroom and track down family to come visit. I would hold her hand to the very end. I cannot imagine a more noble way to spend one’s time that to stand vigil with a failing parent.

The last day was the hardest, Thanksgiving morning. I would be flying out Friday back to Benicia. I visited Boots while family prepared the big dinner. I stayed a good while, then, “I’ve got to go, ma. I have to fly home. I have to go back to work.”

“OK, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No, ma. You won’t. I have to go back to work.”

“OK. I’ll see you after work.”

“No, ma, no. You won’t see me again. I won’t see you again. I have to go away. I love you.”

She smiled sheepishly at me and nodded with her sheets pulled up to her chin. She was grinning, accepting her fate, but I could see she was crushed, frightened. She wanted me to stay and I couldn’t. It tore me up and I cried in the car.

My mother’s name is Beulah from Oklahoma. She grew up with the name Boots. She’s had a hard life, mostly due to bad luck with men. She’s married some real doozies, starting at age 15 when her father gave her away to a grown man. He took her to California and later dumped her. My dad, number two, was no prize, a sailor who never grew up. In the end, after three husbands, she found herself alone with nothing, no house, few possessions.

She was retired, moving from tiny apartment to tiny apartment in different towns. That’s when I bought the Ridgway house and put her in it. “Mom, this is your new home. You never have to move again. Spread out, relax, and enjoy yourself.”

Beulah had several years of stability, security, and seven rooms to play in. She had her dog, Charlie, her cat, Lucy, and the garden she always wanted. This summer with Gino’s expertise we rebuilt her bathroom making it paradise -- white tile and grab bars aplenty. I have to hold on to that image of her living there with her pets and her plants and no worries for a few years. That I will take to my end as my greatest accomplishment.

Nothing, however, dulls the pain of not being there. Nothing is helping me right now, writing this and feeling painful remorse, seeing her face as I stepped out the door, smiling, deferential yet pleading, maternal. I miss you, ma.