The
following is far from a glorification of my mother – it is simply about the person she was
her whole life, solid as a rock as a mother and especially as a dear friend to
a lucky few – I was fortunate
to be one of those lucky ones.
My brother, mother and me (a few years ago)
I’m not going to write a book about what
I recall from my life with my mother in it; only about a few things that stands
out in my heart. Writing about some of my life with her, is also a way for me
to deal with her death.
I
do not recall much from the earlier years, but I do remember that as I was
getting older, my mother would often be waiting for me with tea and my favorite
pastries as I came home from school. We would sit and chat for a while, and then
the day would continue – so very cozy. Soon my friends wanted to come along, and
that was fine with my mother; they thought it was cool too.
She
divorced my father in the early 1960’s and married a very nice man that she was utterly happy
with, a happiness that had escaped her in her first marriage. Many things
changed and one was that we got a color TV with stereo; rather advanced at the
time. There was one speaker on each side of the unit, and for the ‘full’ stereo effect, you had to sit in front and in the middle.
The
turntable was plugged into the TV so we could listen to our records (that would
be vinyl’s for some of you younger kids). One day
my mother wanted to enjoy some ‘full’ stereo music with me, so she placed two pillows on the
floor so we could lie down smack in the middle in front of the TV. We decided
on Finlandia by Sibelius, a heavy piece of classical music that meant a lot to both
of us; and then we turned it up full volume – I was about 14 at the time and into classical stuff. It
doesn’t seem much of a thing, but I remember it fondly as such a parent-child bonding, a
loving mother-son camaraderie, that we enjoyed a lot of during our lives
together.
As
a boy, we would so often walk a few hours around a nearby lake. I cannot
remember that I ever fought against it, but I do remember our endless
conversations about everything; we liked spending time together. My mother was not a person who judged others or
was rarely one to tell me what to do and when, or whatever. I never heard my
mother swear – because
she never did. I do not think that my mother ever told a lie.
I
only saw my mother cry once, and I never saw (or remember) her angry at
anything or anybody. When her second husband died and she told me over the
phone, I was the one crying my eyes out, while she was the one comforting me – that was how stoic she was. He died
at the age of 64 – and they had far from lived a full life together; it was neither
fair to him nor to her. But I know that my mother also died a little that day – it was very clear for all to see. But
she never complained about it – or complained about anything else, for that matter; she
kept it all inside and that was the way she handled things - sorting it out
instead of spitting it out.
When
I ‘left
home’ for a
summer-college stint and from there off to a four year apprenticeship and
business school, I was barely 17. My mother and her husband drove me to the big
boat that was going to sail me into my future – though I did not feel ready yet, as
far as I remember. But I do remember standing on the boat as it left the
harbor, and my mother getting smaller and smaller, waving ‘goodbye’ like crazy; and then I was gone.
Many
years later she told me that was one of the saddest days in her life – and I know it was one of the more
confusing days for me – at that age. But all went well after that – it really did.
Not
having my mother around on a daily basis involved weird feelings of loneliness,
of course. I lost the daily face-to-face contact with a dear friend (and
mother), but I soon started writing letters to her (back in the days, that was
all that you could do, as phone-calls were complicated and expensive) and that
helped. I do not recall how often I wrote, but I do know that the moment after
I read letters from my mother, I would answer them right away. Then she couldn’t write anymore, but I kept writing
her once a week.
As
I advanced in my career, I began to call (as well as write) her – and often. Then I immigrated to the
USA, which surprisingly was not a decision that was hindered with my mother in
mind. She was so happy in her marriage and I only saw a future for them getting
really old together, of course; she was in good hands, so off I went.
My
mother loved my wife from the first get together. My mother loved her two overseas
grandchildren, something she mentioned so often – though not using ‘love’ verbally – she was Danish, you know. Luckily the boys got to visit
their grandmother often in spite of the distance, and I can see my mother’s happy face with teary eyes as she
looked at the boys, no matter how silly they could be at times - often.
The
letter-writing continued, of course and then the phone-calls. Through my 40+
years here, I called my mother 3-4 times weekly. We had lively conversations
telling each other about (nearly) everything and anything, keeping up on each others lives
on a very daily basis. And then, some eight years ago, she was diagnosed with
dementia and that sucked…
My
dear brother had our mother moved to an apartment near where he lived, so he
could keep an eye on her. A lovely volunteer, looking after the interest of the
elder people in the community, found our mother just sitting in the apartment
doing nothing. After tests and doctor visits, she was diagnosed with dementia as
well as depression. She was then placed in a home – a good home, at that.
When
I was informed about this, as I had not felt anything out of whack with my
mother, we talked about it and I kept it on a lighter side, which my mother was
okay with, of course. Her short memory was declining, but her longer memory
held up a lot better, but was of course also disappearing. As she said many
times: “there is
a lot I don’t want
to remember as it is, so I’ll be fine” – and she was.
Of
course the fear, when a loved one hits dementia, the dread of the possibility that
they could get to a point where they cannot remember who the heck you are, is
lingering big and nasty. I kept up the 3-4 weekly phone-calls (as well as the
weekly letters) and I never ‘introduced’ myself when I called my mother, just to make sure she still
remembered me. It never failed and it was always “hi Peter…” and then she would ask about the rest of the family over
here and how we were doing – remembering names and a lot of other stuff I had told her
about many times before. Repetition did help some memory for her.
Over
the next eight years or so, I went to Denmark and visited my mother about ten
times. We would chat away like crazies, having a good time, loving every minute
of it. I finally told my mother how much I loved her and always had; not
something Danes tell each other – but doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. My mother smiled sheepishly and told me
that she also loved me; always had. After that we were okay with telling each
other – again
and again, but I never think she got totally comfortable with it – it’s that Danish thing, no doubt…
But
then the deteriorating began – ever so slowly. My mother started to talk about dying, how
it would bring her peace, a peace she was starting to look forward to. “I’m an old broad, Peter…” she would say (in Danish, of course).
Her
life at the home was simple, too simple for me to understand. She couldn’t read because one paragraph later,
she couldn’t
remember what she had just read. She couldn’t watch movies, because the story-line was gone after a few
moments – so
where was the fun in that? My mother had always liked watching the Tour de
France bicycle races. Not because of the race itself or the riders, but because
of the utterly beautiful scenery of the French countryside, or whatever country
they were riding through.
Many
times when the tour was on, I’d make sure to call her and ask: “what are you doing?” I knew precisely what she was doing. “I’m in France at the moment and it’s so beautiful here…” and then she would giggle, while
telling me what she saw – and she sounded so happy, she really did – so I couldn’t be happier.
My
mother did not have a sharp sense of humor, but she did know when something was
funny. I admit that I took advantage of one area of her short-term memory loss.
When I told her something she found funny, she was more so giggling, never
really laughed out loud at anything and I would repeat the funny thing again
and again, and as she obviously couldn’t remember it from a minute ago, she would giggle again and
again. Now I miss my mother’s happy giggling – happy in that very specific moment, was all we could do and
we did; and as quickly, it was all forgotten and erased from her memory – but I could still hear her giggles… Still can.
Since
my mother started to talk about wanting to die some years back, I asked her
with that in mind, that if she woke up in the morning and was dead, she would
be okay… In
spite of her dementia, that was a ‘line’ she remembered and repeated to me through the years again
and again – it was
our little ‘joke’ or something…
Then
she got much older and fast, but according to my mother, not fast enough. In
the beginning of all that, I was not understanding of where she was life wise;
how anybody and especially my mother who was supposed to live forever, could
wish for death, was hard for me to grasp. But after a few years of that, I came
to the realization that ‘yes’ we can actually live to the point where death might come in
handy – a long
life lived, enough is enough. As I am so far from passing on, so happy with
living, of course it was hard for me to fathom my mother’s thinking in that department. But of
course I caught on and then I understood…
My
mother had just turned 95 when I visited her last May. She had aged
tremendously in the 10 months since I saw her last. It was hard for her to stay
awake; she ate little, but kept the soda-pop factories busy as ever.
“Are you tired, mom?” and she could barely nod a ‘yes’. I would smile, give her a kiss and she would be off
wheezing, coughing and finally snoring. I would stay next to her bed, reading
or writing, while gently hold and caress her fragile old hands. She would give
me a weak, but comforting squeeze at times and we reconnected for a split
second.
When
I found that she was going to sleep longer, I’d kiss her forehead and quietly whisper: “I love you, mom”. A few times she barely opened her
eyes, but I could see a tiny spark for a second, that stayed with me for hours.
I would go for a walk or take a short nap in my mother’s room. When I heard her waking up, I
would ask her what I could do. For the most part it would be more sodas and
then I would sit down next to her bed, holding one to those dear old hands of
hers – and
then telling stories till she fell asleep again. And we would go through that
several times every day.
Friday May 29th, 2015
The
saddest moment arrived; it was time to say those ‘goodbyes’, those, no doubt (again) for the last time farewells. But (again)
this time I really, really hoped it would be the last time, for my dear mother’s sake. It was a hope filled with lots
of love, respect and compassion.
I
had a very hard time letting go of her hands, as I explained that I was heading
back to California, that I had visited her many times daily during these last
four days. I told her that we had so many fun moments and that I had made her
laugh (which was always a favorite of mine). But now I had to go. I did see
sadness in her eyes, as I had to dry mine again and again.
I
told her that I wished she would find the peace she had been seeking for so
long and find it soon, very soon. The hardest thing I ever wished for my
mother. I bent over the bed and kissed her while mumbling those ‘I love you’ and ‘goodbyes’ yet again.
As
I am by the open door on the way out she smiles a little and quietly asks: “When are you coming back?” But I can only force a smile through
tears and tell her yet again how much I’ve always loved her and as the door close, my heart breaks.
Monday August 3rd, 2015
Yesterday
afternoon, approximately 2:30 am (Danish time) my brother called and told me
that our mother had finally found the peace she had been longing for. She died
quietly with my brother holding her hand. During the last moments of her life,
he told her how we all loved her – and will continue to do and how wonderful and what a
privilege it had been to have known her, both as our mother and especially as our
good and caring friend.
Fortunately
I said all I wanted to say to my mother before she died. I said all those
things several times, but I did acknowledge that last May would be my very last
chance. Even though my mother must have known the end was near, she still asked
me when I would come visit again – and I will, mom, and we’ll chat, giggle and laugh, at the cemetery; I can promise
you that.
I
was barely 17 when I waved goodbye to my mother from that big ship as she saw
me disappear into the fog, getting smaller and smaller, making her sad. At 69,
it’s my
turn to wave goodbye to my mother and my most wonderful friend, as I will never
see her again, never be able to caress those old and fragile hands.
But
what a life it has been with her. Nothing extreme either way, but only a solid
rock of a person – somebody I could trust 100%. She was never critical of me
and never questioned my decisions in life. She was more so supportive of me – till the very end.
I
wish and hope that you are not negating the wonderful relations you have or
could have with your parents, with your family and friends; don’t take any of it for granted. My
sadness is eased by the people around me who I love beyond anything: my
wonderful wife and our two great kids (adults, actually). And remember that
death is (still) the ultimate reminder of how precious life is; please,
live accordingly.
She will rest in peace – no doubts about that
Mother & son / two good friends (2013)
