Mother’s Days

My grandmothers outlived my grandfathers, so I assumed my father would go first. Actually, I hoped for it. While I loved my father and could barely stand the thought of losing him, I worried he’d be devastated if my mom died first.

Plus, I couldn’t imagine my father handling the practicalities of life without my mother. She early retired in her mid-fifties, and as my father ran his medical practice, she took over the supervision of their finances, the management of their home, and the coordination of their busy travel schedule and social life.

It was a fair division of duties, but by their mid-eighties, my father knew little of their finances and other home management details. I imagined him at my mother’s funeral, bereft and lost. My mother, I figured, would be very sad when my father died, she would have to make a significant adjustment, but I was hopeful she would find a way to soldier on.

I proved right on all counts. About a year-and-a-half ago, Dad did go first. And while my mother was (and is) deeply saddened by the death of her husband of sixty-two years, she does not seem lost. Mom efficiently organized Dad’s funeral, worked with me on his obituary, and chewed out the hospital morgue officer when dad’s body was temporarily misplaced (long story). She dutifully continued her role as financial, household, and social manager.

What I hadn’t predicted was how much my father’s death would affect my mother’s and my relationship. And that is due in part to the fact that I couldn’t have predicted that soon after my father died, my mother would begin having seizures. Mom doesn’t fall and thrash as you might expect. Instead, she suddenly goes quiet, stares off into the middle distance, and her thoughts and language are disordered.

A pattern developed. Mom would have a seizure and be hospitalized. Five or six days later, she was more or less her old self. Six months later, another seizure. Same pattern. Same thing six months after that.

But in December, Mom had a seizure that wasn’t like the others. This time, she was alone. I didn’t find her for over twelve hours. Unlike the earlier seizures where 9-1-1 was called immediately, this time there was a long delay getting her anti-seizure medication.

While her long-term and short-term memory have been affected, Mom’s mostly her old self. She’s doing great physically. She goes to the gym and for long walks. She makes her way through the Sunday New York Times. She makes phone calls. She goes out to lunch or dinner with friends.

Maybe I’m overprotective, but I’m not yet comfortable leaving Mom on her own for the night, so after work, I head to her house in the evening. We have fallen into a new routine.

First, we get the drinks. I mix myself a cocktail from the pantry liquor supply. For Mom, a glass of nonalcoholic wine since her neurologist has forbidden the real stuff. We’ve dubbed it “Fauxvino.”  Despite her protests that she’d rather have a glass of real chardonnay or a scotch and soda, she’s been good about following doctor’s orders.

Next, we retire to the stressless recliners in Mom’s bedroom to watch the news. The news, of course, is never good, but we make the best of it as we hear about war in the Middle East, ICE shootings, and political shake ups.

When we can’t stand the news anymore, we go to the kitchen, return with our dinner trays of carryout or prepared meals, and switch to Wheel of Fortune. Comfort food for the spirit. Vanna White is still doing it after all these years, and there’s something soothing about that. With so many things changing recently, it’s nice to see a familiar face.

Next, it’s on to Jeopardy. Every time I get an answer right, Mom gets excited and tells me I should try out to be a contestant. I’m not sure getting every 13th question correct would impress Ken Jennings or the Jeopardy producers, but it’s nice to have the encouragement.

Last winter and spring, we’d find a college basketball game to watch after Jeopardy. Preferably the University of Kentucky Wildcats. My parents met at UK at a freshman mixer and married spring break their senior year. Over the years, they watched every game they could, recently wearing Wildcats T-shirts and socks. And when UK would get behind for the first time, they’d sing the Wildcat fight song.  “On, on U of K. We are right for the fight today!”

My whole life, I was under the impression that the only reason my folks had chocolate in the house was to serve my father’s sweet tooth. But I’ve learned Mom has one of her own. The neighbors, Tony and Natalia, occasionally drop by with treats like bags of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups or York Peppermint Patties, and I later find wadded up wrappers by Mom’s recliner.

Every time I come over now, my mother insists I bring my dog, Kit. Mom spoils her with treats and table scraps and lets her lie on the couch with a special blanket. When the weather’s nice, Mom and I take Kit to the walking path around the lake in Mom’s neighborhood.

Despite the absence of my father and my mother’s memory lapses, despite our struggle to adjust to this new normal, we walk this same path we’ve walked for years. Mom and I admire the herons. I pick up after Kit. We enjoy the breeze. The sublime and the mundane. Between tragedies, this is the stuff of which a life is made. Mom is rarely up for two laps around the lake these days. I am grateful for the one.

Dylan Patterson is a writer and filmmaker who teaches English at Cape Fear Community College. Mark Weber is a Wilmington-based artist and illustrates WILMA’s monthly Direct Male essay. weberillustration.com

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