Go See Your Mother
By: Barbara Carson Todd
Tags: Elder Care, Mothers, Life Lessons, Family, Parenting

Go See Your Mother

Family photo, a few years ago (image provided by author)

I can sum up this story in four words: go see your mom.

Don’t have time to read this story? Fine, just go see your mom. The story doesn’t really matter. She does. And tomorrow may be too late.

My husband and I just spent a couple of weeks caring for my mother. I’m one of eight children, and we were raised on the San Francisco Peninsula, in a graceful, many-gabled house that predates the 1906 earthquake.

One brother has passed away. Another is too ill to travel, but six of us take turns coming to see Mother.

Most of us moved away as the area grew too expensive. The voracious tentacles of Silicon Valley spread north swiftly over the past fifty-plus years, driving up the cost of homes. The homeless crisis expanded rapidly, into the suburbs.

The neighborhood where I grew up is zoned for single-family homes. But, as I point out to Mother, that’s a polite fiction. There are too many cars on the streets, too many homes with deceptively small Craftsman-type facades that widen into three-story mansions, tucked behind ancient sequoias and eucalyptus trees.

Two houses nearby are being enlarged. The workmen politely leave room for us to pull up and help Mother get out in front of her home.

Our block is lined with giant magnolia trees and bougainvillea hedges. Many have been there for more than a hundred years, graceful hedges entwining onto ancient gnarled branches in symbiotic beauty.

This sweet-scented tranquility is shattered by BART trains thundering by, just a block away. The conductors lean on their horns as they pass through, from early morning until late at night. Planes at SFX take off over the bay, leaving our neighborhood in peace. But the trains are loud and insistent, reminding us how much the area has grown.

My youngest brother, who lives and works nearby, brings Mother food every week, making sure her refrigerator is well-stocked with fresh produce from his garden across the Bay. Youngest sister lives in the house, but she’s gone 12 hours a day and often travels. Other siblings live 3–5 hours away. They make the trip two or three times a month, staying overnight to read the mail, run a few errands.

“Have you had any falls lately?” My older sister is good at getting at the truth. And sometimes there are bruises Mother can’t hide.

It becomes clear she can’t be alone much longer. Macular degeneration has stolen her sight, so she can no longer read, or drive or even walk across the street safely. At 95 years old, she still plays piano trios with a group of friends and advises a secular Franciscan fraternity as their much-loved formation director.

But she walks at a snail’s pace. She can’t safely cross the street alone.

My husband and I scrutinize the budget — can we manage more frequent cross-country visits? My oldest brother juggles his own finances — can he afford to cut back his work hours? Should he retire earlier than he’d planned? His wife has not been well. Oldest brother needs to spend time with her as well.

“But Mother needs me too.” Two other siblings drive long distances to visit and spend the night every month.

When we come, we spend a couple of weeks cleaning and making repairs. We take Mother out to dinner, help her run errands, drive her down to the cemetery an hour away, to visit Dad’s grave.

“Oh, I love to get out,” she says, gratefully. Because we stay for a longer block of time, we can take more time to listen, encourage friends to visit. We organize things so Mother can find them by touch.

I stare, appalled, at the oven that hasn’t been cleaned in a year.

“We need to come out more often,” I tell my husband.

“Why won’t she hire someone?”

With seven surviving children, surely we can take care of her. But we can’t take care of this big house. Older homes need ongoing maintenance and a good cleaning service. And Mother should have a daily companion.

We introduce these ideas every few months. Soon, we will have to insist on them.

I invite her to come live with us in New York, but she has given up flying.

“Those long lines,” she explains vaguely.

Her primary care physician notes her decline with a swift glance.

“Let’s get a visiting nurse over there, twice a week,” he declares. “And a physical therapist.”

Mother agrees, reluctantly. She likes her peaceful mornings.

We help Mother make funeral arrangements.

“It’s really just like planning a family reunion. Everyone won’t be wondering ‘what would Mother want?’”

We meet with the same funeral director who planned Dad’s funeral years ago. Mother picks out a similar casket, some favorite hymns and delegates oldest brother to handle the details.

“I’ve wanted to get that done,” she comments, feeling more in control for a moment.

As we clean out her office, I see a list from the convent school she attended. Her 80th reunion is coming up this year. Nearly all of her classmates are deceased.

How lost she must feel, these days.

Alone, unable to read or even watch television, she listens to the news or pushes the familiar button on her cd player, listening to audio books. Sometimes, when she feels strong enough, she plays the piano. But the huge sheets of piano music, greatly enlarged, sit untouched on her grand piano. Last year she could read them. This year, it’s too hard to make out the notes.

At home, she gracefully touches one piece of furniture, then another, relying on familiar tables and chairs to get around the house safely.

“Everything hurts,” she admits. Arthritis has left her hands untouched, but settled in her hips and calves.

Last year, she refused to carry a cane, now, she relies on one whenever she leaves the house.

I set up her rebounder, the most gentle exercise I can find.

“Oh, I haven’t used that in years,” she muses, pleased I’ve cleared a space for it.

“This won’t compress your skeletal system,” I tell her. I watch as she bounces for a few minutes. I give her a few mild exercises and she performs them with growing confidence.

“That seems too easy,” she protests.

“But it will help,” I respond. “Just a few minutes a day and you’ll grow stronger. And it’s fun.”

“It is,” she agrees, adding, “I’ll be stronger next year.”

Next year. The words reverberate in my head as we reluctantly board a flight for home. Oldest brother is with her and youngest sister will return in a few days.

Next year seems too far away. All we have is right now.

Go hug your mother. Please.