My mother was one of a kind. A self- made business success at a time when most moms stayed at home, she overcame disadvantages to become the top sales manager for a popular product. She enjoyed the luxury of a Fifth Avenue office and in the mid 1950’s she landed a write up in Cosmopolitan Magazine. The article featured three women who had made it in ‘a man’s world’. My mother had grown up poor with immigrant, non-English speaking parents. She shared a bed with her three sisters. Mom had only a sixth - grade education, a noticeable speech impediment and was self -conscious about her teeth.
By the time I arrived on the scene, her career was in full bloom. But this is not about my mom’s glory days, this is about her final days. She was a widow for over thirty years. A few years before my dad’s death, my parents retired to Florida. When my father died, mom sold their house, moved into a condo and began a healthy lifestyle that paid off. For over twenty years she took a daily one-mile walk on the beach. At the age of 90 she was independent, healthy and determine to make the most of every minute. We agreed that there was nothing that her medication couldn’t handle. Well, almost. Because of high blood pressure and the reality of her age, a decision was made that she should not be living alone. Someone needed to be there in case something did happen. Single and with grown children, I was up for the job.
I moved into mom’s condo and slept in the guest room. I drove my mother to her doctor appointments, the hairdresser, and out to eat. I helped her up and down the curb. I swam in the condo pool. I stayed in the background and did my best to look for any signs of physical distress. One evening, we were riding in the elevator, and I said, “Mom you are sweating. Are you okay? I think we should go to the emergency room.” We did. She had experienced a mild heart attack. After a few days in the hospital, she was given a clean bill of health and sent home.
One morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table and watched her slightly stumble as she walked toward me. Just a little trip with her foot but in my gut, I knew it was the beginning of something worse. It was the beginning of a series of mini strokes. As soon as mom hit the floor, I would call 911. Is she breathing? “Yes.” Is her skin clammy? “I don’t know.” The medics would check her vital signs and give her an EKG. Once or twice, she was left with a twisted arm, and a turned down mouth, but by the end of the day she would be herself again, happily chatting on the phone, and denying anything had ever happened.
Mom continued to be healthy, enjoy life and after two years I was ready to move on. I suggested that we get apartments next to one another at a different location. No, she didn’t like that idea, but she agreed to move to an assisted living facility.
One morning, there was a knock on the door of her room. A man was standing there. He had been told that she had just moved in and he remembered her from when she was a volunteer ‘Greeter’ at our town’s botanical garden. His name was Sandy, he liked to carve wooden ducks. He liked my mom. Soon they were inseparable and became known as ‘the lovebirds.’ Staff would smile and tell me, “The lovebirds are in the lounge, …so cute.” At a surprise visit, I was startled by her worried look. “Where is Sandy?” Sandy had gone to get a glass of water. He was soon back at my mother’s side. She was happy.
At work one day I received an unexpected call from the facility. My mother and Sandy had sneaked out. They had called a cab and arranged to have it meet them around the corner. (Clearly, my mother’s idea.) They were heading out to get crab cakes. The plot was intercepted, and they were now safely back inside. Would I please speak to my mother so that doesn’t happen again? I called my niece, and we took mom and Sandy out to lunch. Perhaps not as exciting as an escape rendezvous, but they enjoyed themselves.
Mom was sent to a local hospital for tests. The few days of separation from Sandy were difficult for her but my daughter came to the rescue and delivered private messages written to Sandy on scraps of paper. Love letters? Mom never made it back. My daughter and I drove to the hospital. When we got there, my mother was in a coma and on life support. Life support was a mistake. I knew that she had a Living Will and when I told the head nurse, she checked and sure enough someone had made a mistake. Mistake? This gave my sister and her daughters time to join us at her bedside. Without this mistake my daughter and I would have gotten there and been told we were too late. We told Mom how much we loved her, that she was not alone and that everything was going to be alright. I sat in the corner in a chair, grateful that other family members had arrived. I thought about her life. I thought about the lovebirds, wiped a tear and smiled.
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