My mother celebrates her 100th year
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- April 21, 2023
- 536
Every Sunday afternoon at 2:30 p.m., I see Mom’s tiny face, her now-white hair, on FaceTime.
She is almost always in bed, sometimes in pajamas or a hospital johnny, or even pants and a top. Most often she is sleeping or stares at me on the screen but is unable to or incapable of speaking. However, I was told years ago that the last sense a person has is their hearing, so no matter how sleepy Mom is, no matter how devoid of emotion she seems, I know she is there. Sometimes she is angry when I call her Mom, so I have resorted to using her name, Catherine.
Recently, Mom’s nurse told us she has vascular dementia, which means Mom is not getting sufficient blood flow to the brain. Regardless, I show her photos. I tell her stories. I sing her songs. If she is verbal, she often does not know who I am. She often closes her eyes as I talk or she stares out into oblivion with no emotion whatsoever.
But one particular March day, she spoke. Maybe it was because it was my birthday that she responded. Maybe it was the rain and cold as I stood under the awning of the coffee house waiting for my daughter that made the loss of her all the more poignant, so I persisted. I told her this day was special because it was the day she gave me life. I told her how much I love her. I sang her Slovak songs.
When she said, “Happy birthday, honey,” I began to cry. I didn’t care what the people who were passing by thought. I didn’t care I was blubbering like a fool in the rain at Easton. I just cared that Mom was there, with me, for that moment in time. It was a rare moment to hear her voice — a priceless gem of recognition.
The following Sunday, she spoke to me for most of our allotted minutes. I don’t know if she recognized me, and I’m nearly certain she didn’t use my name, but when she finally succumbed to sleep, she was smiling. She too felt some kind of connection.
The following week during spring break, I went to Youngstown to decorate Mom’s room for Easter. I took down the Valentine hearts, wreath and bric-a-brac and put bunnies and eggs and flowers on display. For the last few years when she was verbal, she referred to me as the “nice lady who decorates my room.”
My sister became her childhood friend, Mary. As I decked out her 6-foot tree with spring flowers and colorful eggs, I gave her three soft bunnies to hold. She kissed them. She cried. She fell asleep with one in her arms. She even called me “my Leslie.”
And so this past Sunday we celebrated Mom’s 100th birthday. My sister and I brought food and cake, and flowers too. We invited close relatives. Mom was confused with our small crowd of 10. She didn’t utter a word. We fed her cake. Then she covered her face with a blanket. I felt sorry for her confusion. I wished she could have enjoyed her company and cards.
Many people tell me how lucky I am that my mom is still alive. However, she has been in bed for the past five years. She wears diapers and is too confused to ask to be changed. She is the last of her generation. For all those losses, I am filled with anguish, along with the fact that to her I am most often a stranger.
But I know what Mom has done. She has created a world that is her peace, her escape. Her parents are living down the hall, she told me several years ago. In her mind she is a teenager who goes to Krakusky Hall to dance to the big band sound with her friend Mary. Her three brothers still live in her childhood home. My father and their children do not yet exist, except on rare occasions when she comes out of the fog of old age and dementia — days like my birthday, which are rare jewels to treasure.
Instead, I watch her sleep like a mother watches over her young child. I sing her lullabies. I kiss her soft hair. “One, two, three …10 kisses for Mommy,” I say to her as I kiss her brow. I file her crooked nails.
And despite the fact most people see her as a tired, old woman, to me, she is pure beauty — the best friend I ever had, the kindest woman who ever walked the earth, my beloved mother I most often call Catherine.
Leslie Pearce-Keating can be emailed at leslieannpearce@gmail.com.