My husband says I write too much about my mom and maybe I do, but she has been my “child” for so long I guess I can’t help myself.  Very co-dependent of me.  The mentally ill have a way of getting under your skin.

It’s almost the end of the year, so confessionals and resolutions seem in order.  I don’t have my own children, although I thought I wanted them a decade ago.  I won’t blame it on my ex or my mom or anyone else, but leave it to fate and me.  I hate the clichéd expression, but I suppose “it wasn’t meant to be.”  I’m the lady who buys Christmas gifts for my husband’s best friend’s son and other people’s kids and grandchildren.  The woman who spoils her mom like a child.  Here I go, a-wallowing.  I guess Christmas is one of those times when, if you don’t have them, you wonder what it would be like to see the little ones barrel towards the Christmas tree in their PJs and tear open gifts from Santa.  Okay, enough of that.  I’ve got cats.

In 2009, my mom made it to Thanksgiving with my husband’s family (see “Dueling Crazies”, posted on 11/20/11), and although we were sure she wouldn’t make it this year, she did.

I called her Thanksgiving morning while watching March of the Wooden Soldiers, a holiday tradition in my family. 

Hardy, soldier and Laurel in March of the Wooden Soldiers (1934)

Mom said she didn’t think she was up to going to Lorin’s family, but asked if I could please stop by and visit with her for awhile.  Lorin waited in the car.  When I got to her room, mom was dressed in a kelly green jumpsuit (think prison wear, but in thick, padded cotton) that didn’t flatter her skin tone.  This was one of the outfits she had picked out when the clothing people came by on November 21.  I couldn’t take off work to shop with her, so I told the social worker she could pick out a couple outfits on her own, maybe something for the holidays. 

She was fumbling through the top drawer of her bureau and said, “I really want to go, but I look awful.”

I was surprised and happy that she wanted to come with us.  I texted Lorin to let him know and to call his grandma to say we might be late for supper.  I helped mom out of her green jumpsuit (no easy task with her severe arthritis) and into a pair of black yoga pants and a purple turtleneck sweater.  Now she was cooking with gas!

“Makeup, I need makeup, and my hair,” she said.

I pulled out the makeup case in the top drawer and applied foundation, followed by a touch of eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, rouge and lipstick.  She had no mascara or eye shadow, so we did without.  Then I combed her long salt and pepper hair and pinned it up with a rhinestone barrette.  She looked terrific!

I handed her the mirror.

“What do you think, mom?”

“Oh, much better,” she said.

I informed Miss Bell, the head nurse, that I wanted to take mom out for the day and needed the wheelchair too, and filled out the necessary form to get her released.  I turned the alarm on her wheelchair to the “off” setting and Miss Bell removed her ankle alarm bracelet.

We were off!

Mom can barely walk, so moving her from the wheelchair to the car was an ordeal.  She goes limp and cannot help you help her, so she ends up feeling way heavier than her 110 pound frame.  Lorin hurt his back from the effort.

The trip to Long Island from the Bronx was long:  lots of traffic and car accidents.  When we arrived at the Swenson’s at about 4:00 p.m., everyone had a smile on their faces except Lorin’s dad Dennis.

He said, “We weren’t expecting this.”

Lorin said, “Do you want me to bring her back?” and laughed his nervous-angry laugh.

Dennis said nothing and did not speak a word to my mom for the entire evening.  There was no sing-a-long this year.  He and his girlfriend Beatriz left early to go to her family for a second Thanksgiving meal.  Lorin said that his dad despised my mom for upstaging him in song at the Thanksgiving of 2009.  Oh, to have a monster truck-sized ego!

Mom was happy, and unlike in 2009, very quiet.  She sat at the head of the table in her wheelchair, and after dinner, in front of the fireplace. 

During the meal, I asked her if she liked the food, and she said, “Yes.  Thank you all for cooking.”

She wheeled around to and fro and rammed the fireplace screen a couple of times: this is something she does now.  She has to be in perpetual motion, doesn’t like sitting still except for meals.

Taking her to the bathroom was theatre of the absurd.  The bathroom is on the second floor, so Lorin had to carry her up a short flight of stairs and then through the door, but the door was so narrow, the two of them could not fit. 

Mom said in a frantic voice, "Don't drop me!" and clung to Lorin like a feral kitten.  He told me she dug her nails into his back and wondered if she had drawn blood.

I shouted for his Uncle Wes to assist us:  he is thin as a rail and we were sure he could fit through the door with her in tow.

So, relay-like, Lorin passed mom off to Wes, who in turn placed her on the closed toilet seat.  Success!  I thanked him and said I could take it from there.  

Mom grabbed the toilet paper holder while I diapered her and pulled up her pants.  She said, "Don't be frightened, now."  She was right, I was frightened she would lose her footing and fall or hit her head.

When we returned to the nursing home, I set up the wheelchair on the sidewalk and locked it so Lorin could place Mom in it.  It was 8:35 p.m.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed.

Lorin was angry at her lack of gratitude, and shouted, “No, thank ME.  Fuck you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. 

I wheeled her through the automatic sliding doors and up to the third floor.  She started demanding junk food.

“I need potato chips and a Coke, potato chips and a Coke,” she said.

I went to the nurses’ station and told them she was back for the evening and went to the first floor vending area in search of junk food.  I was spent, wanting this day to end.

I brought her back her snack and kissed her goodbye.

“Thank you, darling, I had a lovely time,” she said.  “Tell Lorin I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make him mad.”

I waited almost 15 minutes for an elevator, one of them was stuck, and the other never stopped on 3. 

When I got in the car, Lorin said, “I’m sorry for cursing at your mom.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

Before mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she was mentally ill and extremely manipulative, often cruel.  Lorin hated how she treated me and found it difficult to be around her at all.  She was typically ungracious and ungrateful, and often said hurtful things to both him and me.  Now that has changed.  She is much kinder, grateful for everything we do.  But the wheelchair moment hit a nerve.

I am happy for the relationship we now have, but she is still not a mother to me.  She is more like my child, and sometimes, my friend.