Just Thinking and Remembering

Near New Orleans, 2003

"Mom, we've got to go. Mom? MOM!"

No. We can't start there.

There's not enough space to go all the way back to 1937. There will be time for stories. Lots of it.

I suppose we could start with a week ago Thursday, when I came home to find my mother's car gone from the garage.

See, the thing is she leased this car in March, only a short time after I drove her away from a nursing home.

Since then, she had driven it a couple of times. I did the rest of the driving. But last Thursday, Nancy felt the need to return a shower curtain liner that she believed was too heavy (and too expensive) so she drove to Macy's ten minutes away, walked in, returned the damn thing, and left.

She went to a fruit and vegetable stand that's been around here forever, and I think there might have been a Dunkin Donuts stop in there, but I was too in shock to find her gone to question her route.

So it was that I felt we might see a good sign. She could get around occasionally, and she didn't always need me.

That was the thing about her. We knew it was bad. It's been bad for years, beginning with her open heart surgery back in Dec 2013. Then came the mystery issues of Dec 2017 before the determination that her kidneys were done.

Plus there was the heart problem.

But she believed in not worrying anyone and making sure we made a buck. That night in 2017, I was getting ready to call Greenwich/Warde basketball at GHS when she texted me. She said my sister was coming to get her. She wanted me to do the game (she obviously knew me quite well) and then join her at the hospital.

She knew I wasn't a big fan of hanging out. I get restless easily.

I did as told, and as I promised. In my restlessness, I leaned on technology to occupy me.

She was home by Christmas Day but she wasn't right. I told her we should go to the hospital but she refused. So began probably the worst Christmas ever -- even worse than the one I spent alone. It was just...off.

The next morning, my phone buzzed around 3 a.m. Yup, it was her and it was time to go the hospital. It took until January but dialysis was the prescription and that became a three time per-week escapade. She didn't drive herself at first and so my sister, my niece, a few others (my nephew and a cousin) and I became the drivers. Eventually she got back behind the wheel and, for the most part, we made our way through 2018 and 2019.

Then came Jan 20, 2020.

I was supposed to call a hockey game at Brunswick.

I was just about to leave for the rink. Sean was with us and he planned to stay home. He had strict instructions to be in touch. I was heading for the door when I heard, "Is your father still here?"

I was. She said she couldn't even walk down the stairs to the car. We had to call 911. They got her out and Sean and I went to the hospital behind the ambulance. My sister joined us. We had a long night of tests and talking and confusion.

They admitted her. This time it just seemed bad.

It was medication that she had been taking but it just seemed worse than that. Either way, she was weak. Gaunt. Tired.

In Vegas, the odds weren't great, but we figured she'd pull it off again.

I thought about honoring my commitment. About not letting Brunswick down. My friend Joe Early, then my primary contact there, texted me and told me to stay with my mother. End of discussion.

She stayed at Putnam Hospital before they sent her to Vassar in Poughkeepsie, supposedly for surgery. Except, that never happened.

She seemed to baffle literally every doctor.

Eventually, a nursing home was decided on. My mother -- patient to your face, impatient otherwise -- only wanted to go home. No nursing. Just home.

Visiting nurse? Er. No. Rehab? Screw that.

But the days grew into weeks and she wasn't walking. She needed to get active.

So she went to a nursing home. She was checked in by my sister. All good, right?

My phone buzzed at seven the next morning.

"Get me out of here or I'll check myself out and call a taxi."

I took the bullet and drove there. Our exchange was not exactly "Hey thanks for coming to get me!"

"I know you're pissed," she said.

"OK. Good," I replied.

"But I'm out of here."

"Got it. Done."

We were out within the hour and, to be clear, we were fine. She stayed at the house through the weekend, and I was planning to go to my cousin's Super Bowl party, but I could tell that wasn't going to happen. She was weak and there was no way she was going to go. I felt there was no way I could either. I watched the game on the couch. She slept for probably most of it.

But she knew she needed help. She opted to try another nursing home -- one with a hallway out of The Shining (movie, not book). She said it was for the food but, in truth, she needed the therapy that she mostly resisted. My mother did eventually get back to walking, mostly with a cane, and occasionally with a walker. On the rarest of occasions she opted for a wheelchair.

Eventually, she moved around the house just fine without any assistance. These were small but nice signs.

I visited for stretches as often as possible, sometimes to watch "Jeopardy" or to grab her laundry. In fact, I did her laundry from that point on.

COVID-19 moved things to a new level. I developed a nasty cold at the end of February into early March that kept me from visiting her and I was going to stop in to see her on Mar 9 when I was told that visitors were no longer allowed.

I called two basketball games that night and went home with instructions to "get her the hell out of" the nursing home on the 10th.

Connecticut was shutting down the winter sports season due to the pandemic as I waited in the lobby of the nursing home. I wasn't allowed to go to her room.

We felt like there were bombs falling as we drove away.

That began the final stretch -- the final not-quite six months. There was frustration and laughter and long talks and tons of explanations (who will she get her tech support from now?) and some sports watching and "Judge Judy" (ugh) and more "Jeopardy" and old movies and food. Always. Food.

Between the pandemic and caring for her, my own life came to a stop, and I know I'm hardly alone. Yet we were surviving. We made the goals she set: Sean's graduation and, later, his party, plus Meaghan and Eric's wedding.

Then she went to Macy's. That brings us to this week. While there were concerning signs, she also talked about a Waffle House trip and other things.

We made it to Tuesday and she wanted to go out. She was all set to go on her own but I knew that, with me around, she wanted her trusty chauffeur. So it was back to the fruit stand and Dunkin Donuts and an Italian shop for sandwiches.

It was weird to do on a Tuesday since we were used to the Monday/Wednesday/Friday routine of dialysis, egg and cheese sandwiches, and occasionally something else. Most Tuesdays and Thursdays were either for staying home, me running errands for her, or eventually for me to reenter the world just a bit.

Then this past Thursday came two doctors appointments. We considered rescheduling them, though she said she could drive to one of them on her own. Again, you know the script. I told her to get them done in one day and I'd saddle up her Toyota once more.

The dialysis port in her arm was clogged and she'd need to come back in two weeks to clean it out. Grumble grumble. That was in Mount Kisco.

After grabbing lunch, the cardiologist in Peekskill told her that her case has frustrated her doctors. Her heart clearly wasn't great but that her length of time remaining would be, in part, her own doing. She needed to back down on sodium.

She made her way back out where I waited, and she told me the news in the car.

"So when we go to Waffle House this weekend, I need to see what I can eat," she said.

"Um. Nothing?" I laughed.

We got home. She rode her chair lift upstairs. Eventually, I walked the mail up to her. She texted me around 8:30, asking if I still had the small bottle of apple juice that the first doctor gave her. I said I had put it in the refrigerator.

"OK. Will look. Thanks," came the reply.

We know she was on Facebook sometime that night, with her last social media steps made into Fri, Sept 4.

That's when I found her and told her it was time to leave to go to dialysis. Of course, she never replied.

The prevailing belief is that she died in her sleep, and most likely it was a heart attack.

She married my father in Sep 1957. He died in March of 1989. That was 31 years.

She was without him until Friday. That was also 31 years.

Life's funny that way.

They're back together now. At least I hope so. I want to believe so. And so, when I asked Alexa to play some instrumental jazz this morning, the first tune that came on was John Coltrane playing "Nancy With the Laughing Face."

Well played. Well played indeed.

*****
I know I'll be writing much more this week about her and I hope you'll indulge me. There are stories to tell as I said and I'll be dealing with all kinds of emotions as I try to avoid an "Esther Rolle/Sally Field" moment (Google them).

My friend Lucy Shultz texted me yesterday and told me she wished she had met her. So many people did meet her, and so many others never got the chance. But I promised Lucy I'd tell her stories of my parents.

Also -- and excuse me if this seems political, because it's not meant to be -- but I wish to thank the members of the Carmel Police Department and Putnam County Sheriff's Department for their professionalism and decency in dealing with the events of Friday. I also wish to thank the paramedics and representatives from the Mahopac Falls Vol. Fire Dept -- a place we were proud to be members of in various forms as a family for many years. Each person had a job to do. They asked me questions and I answered them. They were patient and understanding and I treated them the same. I'm forever grateful for how they handled everything.

Also thank you to Kim, the 911 operator who patiently helped me try to save my mothers life and apologized that she couldn't do so in person.

Lastly, and this will probably need to be said again, thank you to literally every person that has called, texted, posted, messaged me privately, and approached me in person. The kind words mean tons. The memories of my mom also mean a lot. It's all appreciated and it's helping us find some...something.