Becalmed

I've escaped. Run off to my own life. It feels surprisingly good. After a sobering Thanksgiving with Mom, I have the need to be away. Coward that I am, I can't tell her so. I wait and call her from the island--Friday night, with a glass of bubbly in hand, and at least one body of water (Puget Sound) and 150 miles between us. I tell her--"I've gone to the cabin Mom...just for a few days." Mom says nothing. Talking on the phone, it's hard to tell what she's heard, when she's understood. There's no body language to read--no vacant eyes to refocus on mine, no neck to realign into my line of sight. Nothing to test for a live connection.

I read (two entire novels), slow cook a meal (roasted chicken with red bell peppers), stay up late, get up late, don't go for a walk or run. I do everything I don't in my other life, my life with Mom.

I don't even think about Mom.

On the flight home, I watch San Juan Island disappear through the glass. Folds of clouds obscure Cattle Pass. South Beach swims in a high tide. We pass one freighter on the way back--a barge pulled by a tug. We're too high up to identify the load, despite flying 500 feet above the Sound. It could be anything--logs from Bellingham, containers bound for the port of Seattle. Anything, but going somewhere.

Eerie plasma-like clouds follow us south, trailing and swirling like the tendrils of an egg poached to havoc by an inexpert hand. Just over Whidby, a portal opens up--blue sky beams down on what's below. Warm in this temporary sun, we pass forests, farm houses, cars driving, cars parked. Life moving on. Safe in my cocoon of flight, I feel none of this. This many feet above the ground, the world moves but I'm not in it. An illusion, it seems--to be stationary, becalmed in the sky when in fact we're moving faster than most cars can drive.

Over Seattle, I look for the Mirabella, a fortress-like construction between I-5 and Lake Union. From the air it's a castle, four towers guarding its four corners. I don't even wonder what Mom's doing. Tomorrow I will get the blow by blow from Lorna--what Mom ate, how she slept, when she cried, how many babies (BMs) she birthed.

Right now, I'm just content to do nothing. Watch the world move while I stand still.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

three tall women

Today we visit the Burke, a long awaited adventure, canceled more than once. It's an exhibit of Antarctica that lures us in. Mom, Jennifer, Lorna and I learn all kinds of interesting facts like--the ice at Antarctica is 2 miles thick. Or, summer in the Antarctic is October through February. Or, 250,000 million years ago the Antarctic was vegetated with ferns and beech tress--incredible! Or, it hasn't precipitated in Dry Valley, Antarctic for two million years--neither snow or rain. We look at photographs of penguins. The King penguins are our favorite, bushy brown creatures with hair cascading their bodies like Cousin It. We touch whale bones. We goggle butterflies and moths. After looking at one particularly intriguing specimen, Jennifer says to Mom--"Can you say this twice Dorin--hawk moth hawk moth." We all giggle, as the "k" and the "m" get stuck on Jennifer's tongue. It's a tongue twist. We all give it a try, our mouths opening and shutting like guppies groping for our next feeding.

Two hours later, we sit exhausted in the Burke Museum Cafe. Craning our necks while strolling between displays seems to take the energy out of us. It's been years since I've been here. Not since college days. I don't remember the lush wood paneling, a loan from the department of architecture, the placard reads. Eighteenth-century French. The panels are waxed pine with murals that appear to be Fragonard or Watteau look-a-likes. We all order hot drinks as we admire the murals--Mom and Lorna get cocoa, I get Chamomile tea and Jennifer gets coffee.

"Have you experienced discrimination in the work workforce?" I ask Jennifer. We've been talking about woman and work and in particular about sexism in the workplace--topics my students have been grappling with this week in class. I explain how many of the young women in my classes have no experience with sexism in the workforce, and hence don't see the need for structural and social changes to promote an equal playing field for working women, particular working women with marriages, families. One student offered the experience of her aunt, saying--"She made it as a partner in her law firm, so other women can do it too."

Jennifer doesn't answer my question but says this, revealing her philosophy about the workplace--"Women need to seize power and bend it to their own purposes." Jennifer's a take charge woman--driven and successful. I admire what she's made of herself. Her comment brings to mind the age old dilemma concerning how to effect change in the world--work within the structure via current power relations or work outside the structure, trying to dismantle power relations. Jennifer's method promises individual success at the expense of reinforcing the strictures that produce discrimination to begin with. I decide not to mention this.

"It seems generational," I add. Women at the turn of the twentieth century didn't expect to 'have it all', referring to the expectation in 2009 that women can raise a family and have a meaningful career. Jennifer herself is thinking of getting pregnant, but she chooses not to disclose this.

Mom's been following our words, her head bobbling back and forth between Jennifer and me. Just when the conversation's getting interesting, Jennifer notices the time--Larry will be out front waiting for us.

I hear a sigh fall from Mom's direction--"Haaaaaaaaaa..." she says. We all turn to look at her. "Can't we...can't we go on...you know...with this?"

Wow, I think to myself, Mom still has her thinking brain, buried somewhere inside the coffin of her body. We've been having just the kind of conversation Mom would have relished in the past, when her tongue said what she thought.

"Sure," I say back to Mom. "We can talk about this later, next time we meet."

Mom nods her head "Yes" as we gather our coats and umbrellas to leave.

Back at the Mirabella, I can't resist returning to the topic of marriage and family. We have an hour before dinner, so I ask Mom--"Why didn't you marry again, after Dad died?"

Instead of a direct answer, she tilts her head back and croons--"Crazy!"

"What...crazy to marry?" I ask her.

Lorna spreads wide her arms and says--"Want to be freeeeeeeee."

All three of us laugh at this. It's a loud, knowing kind of sound that escapes between us. Like a whistle or a bell. Requires no explanation.

"But you're glad you married, right Mom?"

Mom doesn't answer and instead adds--"Never a time...you know...when I felt...just can't go on."

Mom's answer is startling, not what I expect. From the outside looking in, my parent's marriage seemed precarious, particularly in the years right before my father died--all the traveling he did, all the lonliness he suffered, alchohol his only refuge. Surely he must have felt this, not being able to "go on." I think of my own marriage, how there were more than a few times when I thought I "just can't go on." And yet somehow you do, that is until the day you don't.

"The one thing he was..." Mom continues, "when we ...when he and I weren't wonderfully happy...the thing...the thing was...maybe he'd like to be somewhere else...start over again."

"What do you mean Mom?"

"He'd never....never....you know...leave."

Never is a big word, not something I'd use in relation to another human, not even my father. People surprise me, continually, and usually not for the better. That my father returned each weekend, after a week of being on the road to Houston or Dallas or Denver always amazed me. I wondered why he came home, what there was about home that he needed. What happened to my parents? What happened to those years when they stayed up late and drank coffee far into the night, laughing, sharing confidences?

Three Tall Women--a favorite play of mine. Women who stayed in difficult marriages. Two of them working women, two of them with children. Three generations of women. None would marry again.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

santa baby

I bring flowers for Mom today--a gorgeous bouquet of "green" mums and sunflowers. I arrange them in a clear glass vase while Mom gets changed out of her wet Depends and is transferred to her bed. Mom's tired or maybe more accurately she'd tired of being where she is.

When her nurse's aid has left, Mom barely has a word to say. When I show her the eclairs I've brought from Le Panier, she hardly notices their delicate pink frosting or the chocolate swirls that decorate their top-side. When I ask her what she did today, she says--"Nothing." Mulu confirms Mom had no visitors, but that they did do her exercises. I ask Mom how she's feeling and she says--"Okay."

Soon it's apparent Mom would rather settle back into her movie, the one that she and Mulu were watching before I came--it's about the ghosts of Christmas's past. Neither Mom nor Mulu have any idea about the title of the film and I don't recognize any of the actors/actresses. I come in near the end of the film, just in time to see the final struggle where the "ghost of Christmas past" is ousted from his job as keeper of the past and a new ghost is appointed--the blond heroine of the movie who must regrettably leave her new found companion, the non-ghost hero of the movie, in order to do her job for the future of civilization. The best part comes after it's over--clips of mistakes that were edited from the movie. These are really really funny--they have all three of us laughing.

I try to interest Mom in planning her Christmas. I tell her I can be her Santa's Helper. We can make a list next week and then I can take her to the Bellevue Mall to buy presents for my brother's family. We'll get Larry to drive us. She seems to like this idea as she says--"Okay"--but this is all I can get out of her. To myself I'm thinking--what kind of a Christmas will this be? What must this be like for Mom? Does she see this as her last Christmas? Can she even tell me?

Mom and Mulu have been on a movie binge today as the Family channel has their "25 days of Christmas" where Christmas movies are run continuously. Soon, a new one starts--"Santa Baby 2"--and while I don't know her by name at least this one has a heroine I can recognize: she's the left-behind lover in "Wedding Planner"--the blond career woman who's so busy doing business she doesn't have time to be a human being. Her role in "Santa Baby 2" appears similar: a New York ad executive who is such a workaholic she plans to spend Thanksgiving pulling all-nighters. This is about to change as a late night call from Mom reveals that Daddy--Santa to the rest of the world--has had a heart attack. The blond workaholic's presence is now needed at the North Pole to save Christmas.

While I have about zero interest in watching "Santa Baby 2," it seems Mom does. But really, I can't tell if she's glued to the TV screen because she's genuinely interested or if she's just not had anything else better to do today. Instantly, I feel bad that it's taken me all day to get here to the Mirabella--all day to work up the mental and emotional energy to get in my car and drive to her "home."

So I spend the next 45 minutes watching the movie with her, looking for things to laugh about with her. Surprisingly, there are quite a few. When dinner comes--"Penne w/ Chicken, Tomato & Onions, Glazed Carrots"--Mom still wants to watch. So we follow the movie's plot in-between Mom's remonstrations about how she doesn't want any of her dinner--"Not one bite," she says, adamantly. When Mulu and I realize there's not a single piece of chicken in Mom's pasta, I go to the kitchen and request a new helping. I watch as the server scrapes the bottom of her pan producing three minuscule less-than-one inch pieces of chicken--it appears Mom has gotten the short end of the stick this time.

Back in Mom's room I ask what I've missed from the movie--neither Mulu nor Mom seem to know what has happened since I've been gone--it took about 8 minutes to get Mom's three-piece helping of chicken, time enough for something to have happened. As I sit there watching Mulu and Mom watch the movie, I realize something finally--that neither Mom nor Mulu are really watching this film. Instead, they are filling time, letting the TV stand in for the life my mom is no longer capable of living. Not even my presence can alter Mom's lassitude, her doldrums.

I've never felt so powerless.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

chicken feet

"You want to try?" Lorna asks me, shoving a quart plastic container under my nose. When I peer inside I see five or six objects, all of which are slightly reddish in color and have three "prongs" like pitchforks.

"Adidas," she says, as if this would explain everything.

Tennis shoes, I'm thinking? This makes no sense whatsoever.

"You try," Lorna says again, gesturing with her plastic-container-holding hand.

"What are they?" I ask her, trying to gain myself some time. One of the pleasures of Mom's incapacitation is Lorna's cooking....but it is also one of it's downsides as sometimes I feel required to eat (out of politeness) that which I do not want. Today may be one of those days.

"Chicken feet," she says with a cackle that's almost a giggle.

"They're what?" I say back to her with incredulity.

"You know....the feet of the chicken," she says with her particular Filipino emphasis.

As I look back down into the belly of her proffered dish I see that's indeed what she is offering--the three-pronged objects in sight are each either a left and a right foot from a now-dead-chicken. This thought alone--of chicken with decapitated feet--makes my stomach roil, not to mention the idea of eating one of these 'delicacies'.

'Hmm..." I manage to say, "how interesting," a word, which my students have pointed out, can point to a bevy of different conclusions. In an effort to stall for more time I ask her--"How do you prepare these...these...feet."

Lorna smiles then, happy to talk about her hard-won cooking experience. "Ketchup, soy sauce, pepper, salt...then fry them in a pan."

Things are not looking any better on the chicken feet front.

"You try?" Lorna says again and then adds, "You be a good Filipino." referring to the fact that I have tried and generally liked most everything Lorna has offered me. The question has only been how much oil and grease my body can handle.

By this time Mom has begun to clue-in, realizing what Lorna is talking about--chicken feet. She says to me, in an excited almost demanding pitch--"Let me...let me...seeeeee." So Lorna carries her plastic tub over to Mom's wheelchair to give Mom a bird-eye view of the killings. One of the fascinating developments of Mom's dementia is her loss of politeness. Not that Mom is impolite, but rather she no longer has the capacity for playing poker--her face sometimes reads everything she's thinking. When viewing Lorna's vitals, Mom's face takes on the affect of a pug dog--nose flattened and facial muscles curled into a complex weave of interlocking folds and wrinkles. She's a dead ringer, but for the bark.

"Yuk," Mom says very loudly and clearly, speaking presumably for both of us, though I don't tell Lorna this.

Lorna laughs then--a bullet burst of sound that takes both Mom and me by surprise--I expected she might be peeved by Mom's obvious dislike. "Not a good Filipino," Lorna adds then, patting Mom's hand with affection. "Not like your daughter."

Lorna turns again to me with her plastic dish outstretched in her right hand, an offering that can't be refused--"You try?"

"Sure," I say without too much obvious hesitation, wondering just how much I am going to regret this adventure into the culinary world of the Philippines.

When Lorna tries to proffer me two pronged feet, I beg off saying one foot is enough--"I'm already full," I tell her, rubbing my belly--"ate lunch late," though really I hadn't had lunch at all.

Lorna hands me a fork and I wonder how one begins to eat such a thing, never mind why one would eat it. As I turn my fork on it's side and begin to use it as a knife, I immediately hit hard bone. Ouch...I've hit the deep-bone marrow of this chicken's foot. Hmm, I'm thinking, no wonder Lorna likes these things--Lorna only eats bony beef, as in ribs, bony chicken, as in chicken wings. She likes to gnaw and wrestle with her meat.

Lorna observes my difficulty and waves to me with her fork-less hand--"Pick it up, my dear, pick it up, chew it off the bone." I can see she is already doing the same.

While I may have been wiling to try a chicken foot, I am definitely not willing to gnaw straggly strings of meet from a chicken foot bone. I begin again with my fork. After several attempts I discover that if I push down hard enough on my fork I can separate each chicken toe (or is it a talon?) into a series of three jointed bones, minuscule in size. How one separates the meat from these pieces of severed joints is beyond me, so I pop each joint into my mouth, trying to separate the joint from the flesh through a sorting movement in my mouth: my teeth push meat to the right, bone to the left. The result is effective but nauseating. I now have a mouthful of bone and mouthful of what amounts to loose slimy chicken skin--as it tuns out there really isn't much edible flesh on a chicken foot joint.

"Hmm..." I say to Lorna. "Very interesting."

Lorna smiles at this concession, apparently happy I've tried her delicacy, even if Mom has not. Unlike my students, she's not worried about my choice of adjectives. I'm relieved, as I don't want to disappoint her conclusion that I'm her honorary Filipino.

When I look down at my plate, however, I realize I have two more "toes" to go. I wonder how I will do this. Lorna has already gnawed through her entire chicken foot, three prongs in all, and is moving towards the bathroom to wash up her dish. Here, I see my opportunity at last, as I quickly cover the five feet between my chair and Mom's in-room garbage can. When the top of the can flips open with a clank, hitting as it does every time Mom's dresser drawers, Mom looks up, watching as I scoop the rest of the chicken foot into the debris of Mom's Depends and Lorna's used surgical gloves.

"Nice..." Mom says suddenly, "nice save."

As I bolt back to my seat before Lorna returns, Mom begins to laugh, like an old car engine starting: how initially there's a cough and maybe a backfire as fluid hits the starter but before long the mechanics are chortling boisterously, in rhythm at last. Mom is like this engine, her laughter catching as her engine roars at full throttle. I laugh too. There's no helping us, no stopping our good humor.

Some days are good like this.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

love to be that girl

"I'd love to go back," Mom says, "Love to be that...that...girl."

I'm holding up a framed 8x10 photo of Mom and her sister, Marguerite, and Mom is pointing her finger at a lovely young girl who's Mom at a young age. While Mom can remember her dress--lavender with a print--she's not sure how old she is in the sepia photo. My guess is about twelve. Nevertheless, we try to figure out Mom's age by talking about Marguerite--was she living at home when the photo was taken, was she married, where was she working? I ask her when Marguerite married--"1938," I suggest? Mom's not sure but she's convinced Marguerite was still living at home and, while this appears helpful, it really isn't because, as it turns out, Marguerite lived at home for the duration of her college experience, a fact which I didn't know prior to today. Mom lived at home too, except for her last year at the UW when she was required to live in her sorority house because she's the newly-elected president. Marguerite could be anywhere from age 17 or 18 to age 22. Mom is 8 years younger. Before I can deduce anything further about Mom's age, she slips into confusion, asking me--"when did you get married?" "1994," I tell her, as if this has any bearing on the question of Mom's own age at the time of the photo.

When I look at the photo, I see two sisters, softened by a sweetness I can't remember in myself at that age. There's something unknowing about these faces, unworldly, as if life is about constant blessings rather than misgivings. To know that just a few short years later their mother, Berentina, would unexpectedly die adds a jarring footnote, something that could not have been foreseen in their demeanor.

Mom's comment that she'd like to "be that girl" fascinates me, so I ask her--"Would you really want to go back to that age?"

"Yes," Mom answers without hesitation.

"But there'd be all that pain to go through--the depression, the war, your mother dying, your father dying, Dad dying, Peter leaving...you'd really want to do that all again?"

Mom doesn't say anything in response, so I add--"And you'd be without the wisdom you've gained." When Mom frowns at my statement, I explain--you know, one of those compensations for growing old....that we are presumably smarter about ourselves, about life...we know what we are all about."

This is something that has always fascinated me, people who can say, for example, how they wish they were twenty-five again, or wish they were in high school again, as if this going back in time would be the panacea for all present ills. In fact, it would just mean going through life's lessons a second time. Hmm...perhaps there's be a benefit in this?

Mom's version of going back in time is to live the lovely things and forget all the rest, the ways that life knocks you upside down. Mom's an optimist, I'm a realist. There's a lot of ground between us.

Dinner comes--"Carved Ham w/ Maple Glaze, Steamed Broccoli, Mashed Potatoes." There's no conversation while Mulu quickly forks the ham and potatoes into Mom's only-half-open mouth. Dinner is done in less than ten minutes. Mom eats 30% of her meal, 100% of her ice cream.

"What do you want to do about Peter?" I ask Mom after the dinner fixings are carried away. I've been wanting to ask her this for days, ever since my girlfriend, Lora, procured Peter's address and phone number. I've still got the the letter Mom "dictated" weeks ago, a short missive that asks him to contact her because "she's got things to say" to him.

Mom's response is uncharacteristically clear--"We've got nothing to talk about."

I'm surprised by Mom's answer, as this is not the same woman who weeks ago sobbed to me that I must "find her son."

"Bad history," she then adds.

"Why did you change your mind, Mom?" I ask her.

"Can't cover," she says, "you know...the years."

"True," I say, "but at least we could connect now, in the present."

Quickly Mom shakes her head "No" and adds--"Two people who hate us."

Mom's argument seems to be--why place ourselves in the middle of that? My brother Peter and his wife, Susan, are definitely not our fans. Mom's logic is hard to dispute.

"I just want to be sure I'm doing what you want Mom," I tell her.

Mom nods and then adds--"You can...if you want....but not...you know...not for me."

To myself I'm thinking, whether she wants it or not Peter will have to be contacted if a legal action is required to protect Mom. One way or the other Peter will return, it's just a matter of when...what circumstances. The thought of this is chilling.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

a room of her own

"Keep them out," Mom says to me, emphatically, when I walk in the door.

"Keep who out?" I ask Mom, unloading my carpet-bag from my right shoulder and hauling out the day's crossword puzzle for Lorna.

"You know...them" she responds, as if this is something I should know for certain, without explanation. She's waving her left hand at me, using her fingers for emphasis, conducting her own opus. This mobility makes me smile, despite Mom's serious tone.

It's week three of what I am calling Mom's "decline." Her motor functioning and motor planning seem unchanged--a struggle on good days. We still do exercises, despite the fact that therapy has ended. Lorna bats a "balloon" ball to Mom on a daily basis--Mom tries to hit the ball back or more accurately ease the ball out of her lap so that it floats gingerly over to Lorna. We also do leg and arm exercises twice a day, but none of these are as strenuous as what Mom encountered in therapy. I wonder to myself what the effect will be: will Mom lose functioning due to the absence of her therapy?

Where Mom's recent "decline" is most noticeable, however, is in her cognitive functioning. Word finding is no longer her primary issue as, instead, Mom has begun to hallucinate in earnest. At first, I thought perhaps she was tired. Andrew, Mom's day nurse, thought perhaps she had a UTI. But really, none of these can explain the fact that Mom has begun to live in a world of her own for extended periods of time. We've seen glimpses of this world, as periodically Mom has voiced her irrationality for extended periods, most pronounced right before she had her strokes. Now, during any particular visit, Mom will shift in and out of lucidity. It's no longer a question of corralling the words she needs. She has plenty of words, they just don't add up to anything that makes sense.

So when she says this to me--"keep them out"--I assume this is more of her hallucinations. Her imaginings are often long standing, like when she insists over and over again that she needs to go "home" (though she is not clear about where "home" is) or that she needs to go "upstairs" because of "people" she's afraid of or that she needs to get on a bus, right now, so "let's get going" she says. Recently, right after a perfectly lovely visit with Jennifer, Mom spent four hours insisting she's in "Sun Valley" and that she needed to leave, get on a plane, catch a bus, do something other than what she was doing. Her confusions are paralyzing. Not because I don't understand where they come from (or why she is having them) but rather because they are constant reminders that Mom and I inhabit a different world, a world that bears no relation to our shared life together. Mom is passing right before my eyes, only it's happening so slowly, so agonizingly slowly.

"Who are you talking about Mom?" I ask her again.

"Them," she repeats. And when she can't tell me anything more, I begin my remunerations--the list I provide Mom orally when she can't come up with the right word to match the person she's thinking about.

"Your nurse Andrew?"

"No."

"Your nurse's aid (I can't remember her name)?"

"No."

"Your doctor, Dr Hwong?"

"No."

"Your other nurse, Ann?"

"No."

"The 'pill lady', what we in good humor call Mom's night nurse, Cheryl, when she's dispensing medications?"

"No."

Surprisingly, Mom seems to be following each of these names as I list them. I can tell because she's making eye contact--her lids are open--and her body is parroting her language. Her neck and spine shift just a little bit more upright, straighter, in anticipation as I feed her the next name and then she slumps back into her chair, disappointed, as I miss the mark each time. None of my offerings are correct. Now I shift into the second tier list--Mom's personal connections.

"Are you talking about me, Mom?" I ask her, hoping this is not the case.

"No."

Lorna or Mulu then?"

"No."

"What about Eric or Terry?"

Then there's a silence and Mom shakes her head "yes," indicating that I've provided her with the right names.

"But they aren't here, Mom....they haven't been here all week. What do you mean--'keep them out'?"

"Don't want them here," she reiterates, but really I just can't figure it out, as Mom loves it when Eric and Terry visit. I'm glad of this.

"This is my home," she says then, in a loud voice, a very loud voice.

"But you're not home Mom," I respond, "you're at the Mirabella."

This correction produces confusion in Mom's face and body--her mouth curls into a frown, making her lower lip sag, and her hands begin to gyrate, slipping off the armrests of her chair to hang down precariously into the spokes of her wheelchair. She doesn't know where she is, has forgotten that she isn't in her house on Clyde Hill.

"Don't want them here...you know...living here."

It hits me then, what Mom is saying--it's not that she doesn't want to be visited by Eric and Terry but rather that she doesn't want to live with my brother's family. This realization is stunning.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mom?" I ask her, thinking back to all of the times I tried to confirm that living with my brother's family, in the same 3400 square feet, was what she wanted to do. I'd been slow to believe this is what she wanted at the time, finding it hard to imagine Mom would want to lose the autonomy of her own space. This is not a statement to the detriment of my brother's family, but rather the recognition of reality: that many people living together under one roof with an elderly woman and her caregiver would not be easy. It took us months to find her a new house, after the State appropriated hers, and yet each time I would ask her this question she neglected to mention her concerns. Fear? Complacency? Obligation?

Mom and I struggle arduously with our words for the next few minutes, my trying to interpret her abbreviated language and she trying to communicate as best she can. What I glean is this: it appears Mom was afraid my brother and his family would not visit her, be in her life, if she didn't allow them to move in with her when we bought her the new house in February of 2009. In her old house in Medina, Terry and her three children lived on the same property but down the driveway a bit in a separate structure. This worked out okay, as Mom still had her privacy, her home. All this changed when they moved into the Clyde Hill house together in late March.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to me--why Mom spent weeks and weeks during the early spring and summer of 2009 crying and insisting that she wanted to go "home" when in fact she was home. No one could figure this out. It's not the old house in Medina she wanted but rather a house to herself. "A room of her own," as Virginia Woolf would put this. I remember then what Lorna told me recently--about how this summer my nephews and niece were all gathered around my Mom in the living room one afternoon. My mother is saying to them, in a strident voice--"I want to go home" and they are saying back to her, attempting to placate --"you are home, Gamoo." Mom then surprises them all by growling--"Well, if I'm home then YOU ALL CAN LEAVE." All three left the room immediately, but they didn't leave her house. Lorna had chuckled when she relayed this story to me, her laughter coming from grief. Lorna is clear about what she thinks of Terry and her family, what they've "done" to Mom. For myself, I'm not sure what to make of Lorna's story, not sure how much of Mom's response reflected her thoughts and how much was her growing agitation and confusion from the Alzheimer's. But one thing seems clear, she was not comfortable with that many people occupying her home, no matter how much she loved my brother's family. You can still love four people deeply but not want to live with them.

It occurs to me then as I'm readying myself to leave Mom, reloading my bag with water, phone and camera, that maybe Mom has found herself at last--a place of her own. At the Mirabella, with all it's obvious failings in not being "home," Mom may be more at home then we think.

As I push closed the door to Mom's room with my right hip and move down the carpeted corridors of the Mirabella's second floor, the real meaning of Mom's place, her location, comes to me. Each day, Mom slips deeper into her own imaginings, her hallucinations. Without volition, she's found a "room of her own," a world only she can inhabit. No one can reach her there, not even me.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

functional assessment staging

Functional assessment staging (FAST)--that's a mouthful. Apparently, there are seven stages to Alzheimer's, and within these stages there are several levels of functional decline. I find out today that Mom's mind and body are somewhere within the seventh and final stage, what is known as "very severe cognitive decline." That she has had several strokes makes a precise determination difficult, as some functional decline is due to her strokes, irrespective of her dementia.

I am aghast. For these last months I've been operating under the assumption that Mom is a "moderate" dementia victim--somewhere between kind of okay and really not okay at all. I find out about this because I ask Mom's doctor and care manager for their advice regarding Mom's potential participation in an Alzheimer's study at U of Cal, something my cousin forwarded for my consideration. Their answer is not what I expected. There really isn't much time.

Today is Mom's last day of full Medicare coverage. Now we are on our own. She's still here, at the Mirabella, but there's no more therapy, no more motivational talks where we can say--"You need to work hard with the therapists Mom so you can get better and go home." There is no "home" other than where Mom is. There is no "getting better" as her team at the Mirabella have decided she had gotten as good as she's going to get. Mom is as she's going to be. And each day there will be less of her, as her diseases progress.

This insight takes the words right out of me. Makes language vanish. All that remains is an unspeakable grief.

When my cousin Paul comes to visit Mom around dinner time, we find things to laugh about. I'm working hard at "being myself," appearing "normal." Laughing is normal, at least for me pre-Mom's stoke. So I try. Mom tries too, but her attempts appear less than whole. I wait on every word, worried that she won't finish, can't finish. Her sentences, her thoughts just breathe there, taking up oxygen. "When we go..." or "I want to..." or "This is what..." just become preambles for ideas that can't be uttered. Each truncated sentence, thought, becomes proof for what I hadn't known but should have: "very severe cognitive decline."

I never imagined life as such a performance, Mom's and mine.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

kiss the card

"Why?" Mom asks, when I suggest she kiss the postcard Lorna's holding up for her. Why indeed, it's admittedly a strange request.

We are sitting at Serafina, a neighborhood Italian restaurant on Eastlake, not too far from the Mirabella. We've just been seated--Mom, me, Jennifer and Lorna. This is our weekly outing and so for today's pleasure we've decided to go to lunch--something Mom and me would do quite often, particularly when we stopped seeing eye-to-eye about the world: lunch seemed somehow safer than dinner, less of a commitment. But it's been years since she and I have been to Serafina--this is a spot I usually reserve for girlfriends, where we sit and chat over a bottle of wine till our tongues have run down, emptied of words. It's a place to dissect badly behaving husbands and jobs that seem less than meaningful and parents who are dead or are still alive but lack the understanding to see us, their daughters, for who we are. There's nothing but companionship for me here, companionship and excellent food and wine.

So today, here with Mom and the gang, I've suggested we continue the tradition started years ago--that of kissing the card. It started when I was still in graduate school. My pal Cindy and I would come here to catch up. To commemorate the exchange we pressed our lipsticked lips firmly to the backside of the restaurant's postcard, a charming rendition of stylish women and men dining in a golden glow of food and wine. Over the years, the card has changed--new scenes represented, but all of them evoke warmth and good feeling. So here's the drill--each of us must kiss the card, that is after re-applying our lipstick, and we can't share lipstick colors, as each of our "signatures" must be individual. It takes a good loud smack to imprint the card and produce a set of lips suitable for souvenir purposes. There's no re-do here, as once you've begun the smack there's no going back. Each kiss must be perfect. After "signing," we each attest our names and the date. I have dozens of these cards--thirteen years of conversations--but only three friends who have shared their lips with mine in this way.

I explain some of this to Mom, not about why I come here with my friends (to whinge) but rather about how we "mark" each chat. I'm not sure if she's understanding. After all, it is a weird tradition, one that I imagine few other girlfriends enact. To get us started, I re-apply lipstick and smack the card--there's a loud noise that accompanies my smack, as quiet demure kisses are not allowed. At the point of my smacking, Mom looks startled at the commotion I've made, as in--what can my daughter be doing with that card? I explain it again, adding a gay, laughing voice to the description of our caper, hoping to capture Mom's sense of fun, something that has been thankfully reasserting itself of late. Jennifer then kisses the card. We compare lips--her imprint is light, softly pink as compared to my darkly red impression. When we get to Mom, we realize she doesn't have new lipstick to apply, so I lend her my tube, a violation of the "rules" but this is better than no lips at all. Lorna dabs the lipstick onto Mom's bare lips and then holds the card up close to Mom's face. But just at the last moment, just when the kiss would be recorded, Mom leans away, a normal response for anyone getting a postcard shoved into their face.

"Kiss the card," I say to Mom. And when she asks me why, I just say--"Do it, I'll explain later"--because I'm afraid of losing the moment, afraid of not getting her cooperation with my lipstick commemoration. "Okay," she acquiesces. There's no loud snacking noise for Mom, as it's more of a brush and a slide, as Lorna maneuvers the card close to Mom's face and tries to get her lips to contact the surface of the card. For a moment I think she's going to refuse, something about the card not being "clean"--this is a woman who carried a "Wash 'n Dry" to every eating establishment we ever visited, preferring this to using the restaurant's sink facilities. For Mom, there is no "five second rule"--what ever falls on the kitchen floor or the restaurant table stays on the floor or the table--no exceptions. Clean, alchoholed fingers equate to godliness for Mom. Gratefully, Mom moves beyond this germ stall, however, and allows the card to contact her lips, actually more like her entire face breezes by the card.When we look to see what impression Mom has made, there's two thin lines very widely spaced apart, as if she's saying--"Oh, my my, what have I done." Lorna completes our signage, adding her lips to our postcard.

When I show Mom what we've done, she finally gets it. "Kisses," she says, smiling. I'm rewarded with a raucous laugh, something fiery and brilliant that firecrackers out of Mom's mouth and draws stares from our neighbors to the right, despite the level of noise in the restaurant. I join Mom with my own less-than-genteel laughter. Soon, everyone at our table is guffawing. Our laughter has a life of it's own, a significance beyond the moment of our kissing. I take in this laughter, store it like the corsages I saved from high school and college dances. I tuck the card safely away in my "carpet bag"--something to conjure my mother in the future, when she's no longer here to lend me her laughter.

Lunch is an exuberant affair, after such a raucous start, how could it not be? We have plates of food delivered to our table, all of which we eat family style. We begin with two orders of bruschetta, something Serafina does particularly well: bread toasted with olive oil and accompanied by fresh tuna, a coarsely ground olive tapenade and (my favorite) warm goat cheese with roasted red peppers. I could be entirely satisfied with this, but most of our party requires "lunch," something that looks less like a bread-indulgence and more like a well-meted out selection of protein, vegetable and starch. So we add to our repast a mozzarella-fresh-tomato panini and a brisket of beef that has been cooked so long the meat falls off the bone into a sea of spaetzle. It's all very divine, particularly the brisket of beef--it's Serafina's signature dish, and rightly so.

Conversation moves easily between us, much of it centering on Mom and her travels. I point out how Serafina reminds me of cafes we visited during our European travels. Particularly, our focus on bread and cheese and olives today brings to mind bakeries we frequented once arriving at a new place--it was our way of discovering the lay of the land through our newly-full bellies.

"Shall I reveal classified information?" I ask Mom, once we have eaten our way through most of the bruschetta. I can tell Mom's startled and, of course, has no idea where I am heading.

"Well...do you remember the tuna?" I ask her.

Mom's expressionless face screams--what tuna!

"You know, the tuna cans you carried to Europe in your suitcase on each of our adventures?"

Still no response. It's clear Mom does not remember eating much less ferrying tuna across the Atlantic Ocean, the English Channel, Lake Como, the Arno, the Seine, the Thames and many other places. I will have to remind her.

"Well, you packed pounds and pounds of tuna into your baggage, just in case we couldn't find anything "decent" to eat on our journeys." This was in the days before there were serious poundage limitations for oversea travels.

"No," she says then with a bit of a whine. "No...I didn't."

"Oh yes you did," I counter with a laugh. "You certainly did. You even had me stuffing some of those cans of 'Star-kist Albacore Tuna' into my suitcase."

By now Mom's mouth has formed something of a petulant pout--I can tell she's a little miffed, embarrassed really. But the truth is the truth. Lorna and Jennifer are delighted with my revelation--they want to hear more. So I tell them about how much our bags weighed (35-50 pounds) and how many of them there were (12-15 between us), partially due to the tuna and the Quaker Instant Oatmeal she insisted we bring. Mom's theory was that "foreign" food would make her, us ill. When we are traveling to Italy, she's thinking Mexico, and insisting that the water and the lettuce and vegetables are contaminated and that the rest of the food--pretty much all that there is delightful to eat in Italy--was compromised by "germs." Where she got these ideas I never learned. But she was adamant. When breakfasting at the Villa Cora she ignored the beautiful baguette steaming on her plate and instead requested a cup of hot water. "No tea or chocolate, Signorina?" "No," she'd say. "Just water, no gas." She was unstoppable in her vigilance. By our third trip to Italy,however, she finally relaxed her standards, agreeing that perhaps tuna and oatmeal were not required (though she still hid a few cans and packets into her bags--I saw them). By the time our traveling days were over and she had begun traveling with my brother's children instead, her food ferrying rules of thumb had evolved--it was Burger King and McDonald's all the way, as these were the only food group her grandchildren would eat while abroad.

By the time I finish my storytelling, I have the whole table laughing and Mom, thankfully, is laughing right along too. She seems to have gotten over her pique at my revealing a family secret and it's clear she finally has remembered these strange antics of hers--the world according to Dorin Anderson Schuler.

By the time we get back to the Mirabella, we are sure there's nothing more we can stuff into our stomachs for the day--our bellies are full, overly full. This was no lunch for the faint of heart! In my camera are the moments we made--the laughter and the words and the kisses we exchanged while gathering forkfuls of food from each other's plates. Tomorrow will another day at the Mirabella--there won't be a fancy lunch or the company of Mom's friend, Jennifer. It will just be Mom and me, doing what we do all day, everyday: finding a way to get through the hours with whatever emotion and brain capacity we have the grace to enjoy. Perhaps this is the way to cope--to be grateful for small things--laughter over bruschetta and goat cheese, storytelling in-between bites of beef brisket. A world this small can be as large as we choose to make it.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--

marital bliss

'What do we need it for?" one of my students asks. We've been discussing the efficacy of marriage, analyzing academic Stephanie Coontz's argument that marriage is not frail (or devolving), it's just changing, as it always has historically. I'm surprised at the skepticism in the room. Normally a discussion of marriage produces the usual inanity about white horses, grooms that sweep a girl off her feet and all the lovely children who will follow. Despite the fact that women are "liberated," old traditions die hard--many young women still seem to want the fairy book version of marriage. But today is different, this class is different. I have a room full of critics. This thought makes me smile.

My student's question--"why do we need it"--echoes through my brain as we consider the election results for Referendum 71, a measure which narrowly passed this week in Washington State. An analysis of voting patterns reveals that once beyond the narrow corridors of liberalism in King, Snohomish, Thurston, Whatcom, Skagit, Jefferson and Challum counties, the rest of the state (including Pierce county) voted decidedly against gay rights, a move which upholds traditional, conservative notions about who should or should not have the blessings of the government for their unions. Not that Referendum 71 gives the go ahead to gay marriage--it does not. Instead, it tries to put gay unions on the same footing as heterosexual ones in terms of the myriad of social and political benefits heterosexual couples receive in exchange for toting the line and fulfilling mainstream societal and religious expectations. If your partnership is a marginalized one, then perhaps a desire for marriage makes sense, or at least some assemblance of marital rights. Perhaps my own skepticism about marriage is really a privilege--because I have access to it I can be critical of it?

When I get to Mom's we discuss Referendum 71, or rather I talk and Mom attempts to understand. It's hard to tell how much of what I am saying is making sense to her. Lorna is there in the background, doing her crossword puzzle (I try to remember to bring the daily Seattle Times and hand off the back page of section B to her, the page with her puzzle). She isn't saying anything--I imagine my words are controversial to her. Lorna is very religious, though not a literalist like her husband. I am wishing she'd join our chat, as I want to know what she thinks. But she stays quiet.

I try to broaden the conversation so I ask--"If you were no longer married Lorna, would you get married again?" At this, Lorna laughs, loudly--"No, no my dear," she says, "no more marriage for me." I turn to Mom, looking for a response. I already know what Mom thinks of marriage--there's a reason why she never got married after my father was killed. But I'm curious about Mom's reaction to Lorna. There's a big huge grin on her face--Mom is nearly laughing. I am already laughing. All three of us know what we are talking about--marriage is so hard why do it again?

Whenever I ask Mom about her early years as a married person, her immediate response is consistent--a shaking of her head and then "we had no money." Sometimes she actually frowns. And sometimes she admits her distaste for sex as young married woman. Because she continues to describe those marital years negatively, I have drawn the conclusion that it must be true--that this "fact" must be so embedded in her brain that, despite her dementia, she knows how to answer. So I am more than curious when I find a letter addressed to her friend "Vi" which dates to late 1950 and early 1951. There's no date on the letter itself, but from the things Mom discusses in the letter (as well as the postscript which is written several months later) I can approximate the date. I'm not sure who Vi is--Mom has not been able to tell me about her. Not yet. In any event, it's an intimate letter, one that would be exchanged between close friends. I am guessing that Vi was a workmate at Fredrick & Nelson, as the letter refers to a mutual acquaintance, Kit--my mom's good friend and colleague from her days at F&N. Mom spends the first page oohing and aahing over Vi's new baby, telling her that "nothing in the world could be more wonderful." Part of the next page Mom is apologizing for having missed Vi's send off--apparently she and her husband, Lynn, left on a ship for Japan and Mom, coming from work, was delayed, arriving at the port of departure some thirty minutes after the boat had left. Mom talks about how she couldn't find a cab and chose to walk (or rather run) and how, as a result, she arrived "puffing and painting at the pier," a situation Mom would have deplored, as she hates to sweat or rather perspire, as she calls it.

On page two, Mom shifts into her own life, beginning with her statement that she is still working at F&N but "not for long" because as she sees it "it's time I settled down to being a wife, homemaker and mother." The only thing "holding up my retirement" is her and Dad finding a piece of property to buy, a place to begin their nest. She assures Vi that "I'm truly looking forward to it."

At this juncture, I have to stop reading, as I am truly astonished. Mom has always maintained that she was reluctant to leave her job at F&N and that she worked right up to the birth of Peter. Mom's statements to Vi seem to contradict this--Mom can't wait to stop working and get pregnant, ordinary goals that many women of her day would have professed. When I read aloud this part of the letter to Mom, she just smiles, a gesture which seems to admit the inconsistency I point to while at the same time admitting nothing. It's clear by Mom's smile, however, that those years were pleasurable to her. Why has she never said so?

When I get to the next paragraph, I am truly astonished as Mom begins to talk about her marriage--she's been married to my father for three years by the time she writes this letter. She tells Vi that "nothing exciting has happened in our little lives" but that there's lots of "simple happiness." "I never knew marriage could be so satisfying," Mom continues, "and so full of companionship." Then Mom really waxes on:

"The most delightful time of day is the conversation that usually begins about 11:00, after an evening of study [my father is still going to the UW to get his undergraduate degree after the war], over a cup of coffee and sometimes I'm afraid way to late. It's wonderful to have someone to share everything with. My goodness, this letter is developing into a lecture on marital bliss...I hadn't intended that, but I know that you know what I mean. Just from the little you have said about Lynn and you, I know that you experience this fine sharing relationship, too."

By the end of page three, Mom types a postscript where she apologizes to Vi for not having mailed the letter and then tells her that, in the months that have ensued since she first typed the letter, "so much has happened": they found "a lovely piece of property" in Medina and built a "little house." Saturday they are going to "christen it," she reports, but doesn't say just what that christening might consist of. Whenever my husband and I spoke of "christening" in the early days of our marriage, we meant one thing--sex and an open bottle of champagne. You'd be surprised how many places we've "christened" in this way, though I am omitting all details. I very much doubt Mom meant either of these things--she hated sex (per her own self report) and never drinks, though my father liked his beer.

Mom's letter is revealing, as it suggests a schism between Mom's experience of her early marriage and her latter recollections of it. And it's not just the dementia--since my teenage years, when I knew to ask and to observe, Mom has been consistent about seeing marriage as a "burden." Her many words of advice often centered on protecting me from the perils of marriage, urging me to finish school, get a career, buy a house and then, maybe, think about marriage.

My own recollection of my parent's marriage was that it was difficult, often acrimonious. While I have many images of them sitting at either end of the kitchen table, amiably discussing business--meaning some difficult decision that had to be made in my father's real estate career--I have just as many or rather more of them arguing fiercely, arguing to the bloody end, whatever that might be. Knowing what I do now about my parent's personalities--their inability to give in, compromise later in the marriage--they would have been formidable foes. When I asked Mom about this (years ago), she said--"Yes, I felt strongly about a few things your father decided." Well that's an understatement--there were many things bringing on disagreement, the most poignant being my brother Peter and his "bad" behavior. That topic elicited screaming and crying; as a teenager, this was very disconcerting. To this day, my brother Eric and I are sure they would have divorced over Peter, though Mom was spared this humiliation by Dad's death. Still, I'm not sure. Whenever confronted by a couple on the verge of divorce, Mom always counters with--"can't they work it out" or "can't they stay together for the kid's sake" or "that's a stupid decision economically." Always. Her response is the same, no matter how dire the circumstance. My own crumbling marriage years ago was case and point: Mom never saw a life for me outside of my marriage. The pain for me in this was great.

Mom began her life as a married woman at the Bethany Church and then later consummated it at the Cougar Creek Lodge, Granite Falls (I found the reservation card for "Mr and Mrs. Paul Schuler," listing the night as 9/27/48, the day of my parent's wedding--I can't believe she saved that card!)). Her marriage ended tragically, with my father's death in an accident. What happened in-between is a mystery, will remain a mystery. My father isn't here to ask and my mother is not a reliable source. Even before her Alzheimer's, Mom could not be depended on to speak the "truth," so to speak. She's been far more concerned with "appearances"--how her life might read to her audience. It's only been of late that Mom has even agreed to talk about her earlier self--death is a motivator. Her intermittent tears these days when recalling certain aspects of her past attest to this "regret" and humiliation, particularly surrounding my father and Mom's other two lovers, Tommy and Bob. So I suppose I should be grateful that at least she was able to say this--that marriage is hard and should not be entered into lightly. Her words kept me from marrying until I was thirty-four, late in years, even for today's world. Back in Mom's time, I would have been a spinster.

When I get ready to leave Mom and the Mirabella and our marriage discussion, Mom asks, "Where is my head?" I am stunned by her words, not sure of what she is saying. Lorna is not ruffled, however, as this seems to be something Mom has asked before. Lorna says--"I do not know, my dear, but mine is right here." Then Mom asks,"Where are my legs?" Lorna replies smoothly in her musical tones, her voice rising with a gentle crescendo at the end of each sentence--"I do not know...did they go for a walk?" Lorna and I laugh then, we can't help it. It's a raucous laugh, uncontrolled, necessary. And Mom joins in too. But I can't tell if she's understood the humor--if she's laughing with us because our laughter is contagious or whether she's laughing at herself because she sees the absurdity of what she's just said.

And it's then that I understand something about Mom, how she's getting through this demolition of her "head"--walking a fine line between sanity and insanity. What must it be like to be Mom, to not be able to depend on your own brain, to wonder what has happened to your "head"--to not know literally where it is? Memories, happenings are fluid for Mom: nothing is beyond the reach of reconstruction, renovation. An answer she gives today may be a different answer tomorrow. Getting through the present is dependent on making story, making use of the past. Nothing is sacred, beyond the dissolution of her synapses. Whatever she can grasp a hold of, communicate in desperation, is a victory for Mom--the "truth" is immaterial. In this respect, I've waited too long, let too many years go by before chronicling Mom's life.

Anything is better than silence, being unable to speak or write or sign. Mom is nearly there--a world of sound but no voice. Her Alzheimer's will win in the end.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--

housekeeping

It comes to me today, as I'm dragging my body to my car and readying myself for the commute to see Mom. There's the ice chest to fill with one diet decaffeinated Coke, the lunch to broil and squeeze into a small Tupperware container, the "rug bag" to fill with three bottles of water and what ever else I might need --like antihistamines and hydrocodone and reading material for Mom (all emergency measure). Yes, it comes to me amidst these dehumanizing repetitions that I am numb. Ready to be done.

When I arrive at the Mirabella about noon, Mom is waiting in her chair with the adjustable table pulled up next to her chest--she is awaiting lunch which, as we find out, will be a tuna sandwich on wheat bread with pickles and chips and chicken noodle soup. Mom doesn't eat the latter three items, so when lunch is brought in and arranged on her table, Lorna immediately shunts these uneatable, unmentionable items away from Mom's view. Out of sight, out of mind. All she has before her is the sandwich, a small bowl of diced melon and her vanilla ice scream.There's also a small piece of chocolate cake, or maybe it's a brownie, tucked behind the soup, but Mom doesn't see this yet. There hasn't been a day in which Mom refused to eat this dairy treat--no matter how much lunch or dinner she's eaten, those first few mouthfuls are nothing short of bliss. They cause her lips to curl and open and all her recalcitrant speech to fall way. No more--"I WILL NOT eat anything more." It's a amazing how clear she can be when ice scream is involved.

Mom eats half the sandwich and then tries to pawn the rest off on Lorna and me. I say "No"--showing her the cold, previously broiled hamburger I'm eating from my Tupperware. Lorna says "No" as as she has one rice and vegetable lunch (prepared last Sunday) to eat later on in the afternoon, now conveniently stored in my mom's in-room refrigerator, thanks to cousin Paul. But not even this can stop Mom from her tantrum--"I WILL NOT EAT THIS--YOU CAN"T MAKE ME." These words come trumpeting out, like sitting in the front roar where someone like Neil Young or Steven Stills is strumming so loud you don't even need to try and listen, you can just close your eyes and the notes just fill up your pores, drown you, leaving no room for anything else. Mom's words sound like this to me--loud, unbearably near. So here, listening to Mom, I'm thinking--no, that's true I can't "make you" eat and neither can Lorna. I watch as Lorna gives up on the sandwich and stabs a small piece of chocolate cake instead. She presses it to Mom's lips but Mom's lips remain tightly closed across her teeth, drawn, like a curtain where nothing gets in--no light, no air, no chocolate brownie cake. Nothing. "Okay," Lorna says, with her particular Filipino tilt of tongue. "Here comes the ice cream," Lorna finishes, her voice singing like a happy little show tune--the kind that Mom would hum when I was growing up: a short, sprightly little jingle from the 40s and 50s that makes you have to sing along. Mom's mouth is now wide open, at the ready. Here comes the ice cream.

Once lunch is cleared away, I bring out Box #1 of the boxes I rescued from Mom's house on Saturday. There's a dizzying assortment of things crammed into this box. I can't even begin to imagine how 13 unused wedding invitations manage to lay along side three partially used ration books from WWII, eight years of pay stubs (1942-1950) from Frederick & Nelsons (as well as her "Discount Authorization Card)," an employee manual (and pay stubs) from the IRS (apparently Mom worked as a typist for the IRS during the summer of 1942), two admittance stubs (and a card certifying that Dorin Anderson Schuler "is a charter member in the 21st Century Club..."a ticket to tomorrow") from the Seattle World's Fair in 1962. As a retail clerk and later a member of the "Sales Promotion Department" at Frederick & Nelson, Mom earned anywhere from $2.50 to $29.85 per week (depending on whether she was working during summer vacation or during the school year). She even has stubs from the scholarship Frederick & Nelson payed to the UW for one year of Mom's schooling once she had become a business and economics major. At the Bon Marche, where she worked part-time during the school year of 1942/1943, (she was working at F&N at the same time it appears) Mom made $12.95 per week. Mom was a busy working woman it seems. I marvel at how she kept at all these jobs while she kept her grades up (I also find in this box the Commencement Program for 1946 where Mom is listed on the front flap as Magna Cum Laude at the UW) and pursued the myriad of on-campus activities she did while attending classes. No wonder she feels grief that she she didn't have time for her Mom during the late spring and summer of 1945 when Berntina was so ill--she didn't have the physical hours in the day. Her schedule was maxed.

So Mom and I sort through these treasures, Mom attending as best she can and me excited, despite my tiredness, to discover more about my mom's secret life, the life she had before I was born. Mom wants to feel, touch each piece of paper I remove from the box--some of them are intriguing--like the pay stubs--but others are just pieces of paper, some of them clippings from newspapers (that neither Mom nor I can recognize) and some of them empty sheets of paper and note cards with no apparent use. She wants to touch each of them and after doing so, she says the same thing--"Let's keep this one so that...." and then her speech gets muddled and I am unable to discern what it is she want to do with these pieces of paper from her life. Each of them has significance, even the blank sheets of paper, and I am reminded that Mom is ill, has been ill for a long time. Here is the evidence of a hoarder--the meaningful and the meaningless right along side each other--and having no ability to throw away the things she no longer needs. Even now, here in her "dying" room at the Mirabella, she thinks that blank white note cards are of such value that we had better make sure their kept safe.

But really, at this point, where's the utility in commenting on Mom's hoarding tendencies. She is who she is and, to be honest, I am lucky she literally saved everything. How else would I know that she and Dad and Deda, Mom's father, took a road trip down the Oregon coast and into San Francisco in late July and early August of 1948, if Mom hadn't kept the postcards she mailed to her nephews (Mark and Craig, Marguerite's children, though I can't figure out how she has them when they were clearly posted) and the napkins and coasters from the places they dined. And no, I am not exaggerating--paper napkins from "The San Fransisco Drake Hotel," "Goman's Gay 90s Please" and the "Cliff House." Mom was impressed by the latter, as she writes to my cousin, "Master Mark," that "We've dined and cocktailed at the Cliff House" where the view is "magnificent." There's a coaster from a lounge, "Top of the Mark," a postcard from "Castagnola" on Fisherman's Wharf and a rather swank business card with illustration from"Sorrento Pizzeria and Restaurant" on Columbus Avenue. It appears my parents and my mom's father have a very good time eating their way through San Francisco. They started their journeys at Port Angeles, and worked their way through Sekiu, Cape Flattery, Cape Alava, Crater Lake, Ocean Lake (lodged at Dorchester House), Yachats (where they spent the night at Sherwood Lodge whose brochure argues that "Robin Hood Would--You Should"), Gold Beach (where they rented a boat from "William's Boat House"). When they get to Eureka, Mom writes to "Master Mark" that "we're really enjoying the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful sunshine." Apparently, sunshine is in high demand. Near Fortuna, CA she writes that "we visited the Sea Loin Cave" and "there's lots of fog, but sun is coming out." More commentary on weather. At Big Sur they stay at "Richardson Grove Lodge" and dine at the "Big Sur Lodge." All of her postcards are signed, "Deda, Paul, Dorin," without variation. There's an order to things and Mom knows how to fit smoothly within this order. While Mom is yet to get married, this happens in September of the same year, she sees herself as trailing the men in her life, her father, her soon-to-be-husband. When I ask Mom about this trip, she can't tell me much, except that it was before Mom got married. The postmarks on the cards mailed establish this to be true.

Later that day, after Mom's OT (where she successfully plays "ball" with Becky and bicycles her arms for ten minutes), I have dinner with a friend of mine at our favorite bar in Ballard. Over "tannini's" (Oolong tea martinis) Laura asks--"Why is it that you need to know...need to know about your Mom?" I don't know how to answer this at first, so I am glad for our plates of Pad Thai and Fried Tofu, for our bowl of Won Ton soup--keeps our tongues and stomachs busy. Why indeed, I ask myself? What difference will it make if I know that Mom, Dad and Deda dined at the Cliff House in early August 1948? Laura adds--"My own mother was, is a mystery....she died a mystery." What do I say to that? I feel small, inadequate--that somehow my need to know is a defect that should be corrected, and soon. My mother kept herself private, away from scrutiny. Not even her children knew the kind of woman she was. What makes us lock up tight, never give ourselves to the people in our life? Why are we so unsafe?

I continue to think about Laura's question as I make my way home through what is now an early dark, thanks to the end of daylight savings. Perhaps I don't have answer. Perhaps it's only serendipity, happenstance--that Mom at last is wanting to tell me about her story, her life, and I am here to listen. At last she is forthcoming and feels the need, as her life comes to an end, to have someone else be the repository of her life work, her life secrets, her life mistakes. Mom has anointed me with this task--to be her biographer, so to speak, to be the person who will keep Mom's life safe for another generation, whether or not Mom is alive to tell the stories herself.

So I have stacks of relics spread over my carpeted office floor, rubber-banded papers I've carefully sorted into the genealogy of Mom's life. Middle School, High School, College Life and the Years Before Marriage, Early Marriage Years, Employment History. We've got ten more boxes to sort, many more stacks of Mom's life to retrieve. I'm hoping there's time, but will there be? And I do see it as this--a race against death, a time-dated opportunity to bring back Mom's life to her, the life she can no longer remember and the life I was never privy to know anything about.

I'm tired--I'll admit it. So tired I can't stay awake during daylight hours. Yawning has become a sickness. Unavoidable, contagious. I'm a pariah, a body to be quarantined. It's been over two months since Mom's stroke. Each day is a crisis, each hour a grieving, a letting go, no matter how tired I am. How many more of these days can I live through, tolerate? It seems there's no limit. None whatsoever. Perhaps my brother Eric has it right--to stay away from the Mirabella is to preserve one's own living, one's own sanity. Eric is running scared.

But I can't do this. I need Mom and Mom needs me. Leaving never fixes anything. Maybe it's a as simple as this--Mom's "things" are a lifeline, something to clean up, make sense of. Reviewing, sorting, stacking, rubber-banding are all activities that have a definitive beginning and end. They are coping tasks that can be begun and worked through to the finish. In contrast is my mother's life--an interesting but messy conglomeration of joys and mistakes, like all of our lives. There's nothing simple or easy about Mom's living or dying...but recording and evidencing Mom's life and the process of her dying brings an order to what is everything but an orderly process--the letting go of the living. Perhaps this is why I spend hours "housekeeping," going through the accumulation of Mom's life--sorting boxes of musty papers and clippings, fingering stained napkins and trite Hallmark cards that are simply signed, no personal message. A way to grieve, a way to get through what seems unimaginable--Mom no longer being here to exchange words with me, no matter how pleasant or irascible. Maybe Mom's housekeeping too?

She tries to tell me so as I put on my coat to leave--"It's a way, you know..."

"Way to what?" I ask her.

"A way to...you know...get...."

"Get what?" I ask with a twinge of frustration--it's the end of the day and I'm ready to be gone, back to my own life.

"A way to get...get..." she sputters again.

I look at Mom, at her lips twisted with speech or the lack thereof, the muscles of her jaw pulled tight with the effort. Here we are, hanging on her words...expectant...exhausted by her struggle for speech. I find my own lips forming the troublesome words--"a way to get...get..."--wondering what could be next. I'm stumbling along with her vowels and consonants, willing her sentence to complete itself.

"A way to...you know...get...get..." she tries again.

Where have the words gone?

And just when I think we'll have to give up, leave Mom's thought unfinished, forgotten, the words appear, an avalanche sliding past the roof of her mouth, accelerating through her teeth and gums like they've been waiting there all along--

"A WAY TO GET THROUGH GRIEF," she finishes smoothly and with emphasis.

Her words take me by surprise. There's a quaver to her voice, like there's tears there needing to get out, and as she releases the final consonants, her body slumps dramatically to the right. A collapse. The effort of speech has taken something from her, something only sleep can replace.

I nod "yes" to her in reply, buttoning shut the collar of my coat.

As I touch both her cheeks in goodbye I think, Mom knows. She understands what we are doing. Working though grief.

And all the while, I can't help asking--who will retrieve my life? Who will meticulously sift through my papers--my school reports, my love letters, my dried, crumbled roses? Who will be my historian? Why does this matter?

When I die, my mother dies with me.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--