We had gone on a vacation to Maine. She had never been to Maine or really anywhere in her entire life. But now that she had found the fortitude to free herself, without benefit of medical or psychological intervention, she was ready to travel a bit. I was thrilled.
Ma lived most of my life with crippling anxiety issues that imprisoned not only her, but her entire family. The idea that now we could travel about freely was a tremendous release. Escape.
My thoughts at that time, some thirty years ago now, were simply that we could have some much delayed fun. She could be refreshed of mind and spirit, renewed as a thinking person, and simply put, happier.
The happier part of my fantasy was tested and refuted many times as Ma’s final decades came to pass. Yet there was laughter, joy, and lots of, “Ma, look at that!” moments as we slowly wound our way through backcountry roads and highway traffic jams.
I took her to places I felt she’d enjoy – vistas that overlooked vast swaths of trees, hills covered in wildflowers, and skies marbled by clouds. We ate lunches in small cafés geared to older folks – tea served in teapots, doilies hung in tiny windowpanes, miniature cupcakes. She bloomed in those moments and became an independent person who could, in fact, enjoy a moment’s beauty.
We visited New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Vermont and as many local nooks and crannies as I could find in southeastern Massachusetts. We picnicked in the car. We watched swimmers from the beach parking lots, kids flying kites. We ate ice cream and fried rice by the pints. We enjoyed each other’s company because we played at being friends versus mother and daughter. It worked during those magical hours.
Because her sister-in-law wore a little make-up when she was out in society, Ma bought some from her Avon representative and took the time to “doll herself” up whenever we were going out. My mother in make-up. A mask that let her ease into the character she wanted to be while shopping for some trinket in a tourist shop. I was witnessing her metamorphosis. She held tightly to my arm for balance.
The simple act of walking became increasingly problematic for Ma in those later years. Always a bit overweight, never walking more than a few yards hither and yon about her postage-stamp sized property and tiny cottage, her muscle tone didn’t exist. But her stubbornness did, and that strength of mind over physical limitations allowed her to slowly step along. “We can make it,” was all the encouragement she needed throughout her late 60s and 70s as we hobbled to and from the car on our adventures. Joy.
The wheelchair years finally came. She could scoot around her home with the aid of a walker, but outside and going on adventures meant a wheelchair was necessary. I learned how to swing that device in and out of my hatchback, expressly purchased for this purpose, with as much ease as my back would allow. By the end of an afternoon of shopping, I’d be quite exhausted and in pain. It was worth it. Ma had had a good day. That was all that mattered – her happiness hard fought.
The clock ticked down. The moment came when standing and pivoting were out of the question, when living at home was no longer an option, when a new reality, a nearly nightmarish reality would claim her freedom and mine. Reality – no one escapes.
Those final years when aging collapsed her body into a mass that would not move independently followed by hearing, speaking, and seeing loss, all systems shutting down was tremendously difficult. A slow death by aging.
My guilt at not spending more time sitting with her in the nursing home weighs heavily on me. An hour or so a week was all I could handle those last couple of years. Other family members were with Ma daily, so I felt I could withdraw a bit and save myself the emotional agony of seeing her so diminished. But each visit was, in fact, a living hell. She told me many times she didn’t want to wake up any longer. She thought she heard a baby crying and wanted to find it and give comfort. She thought she saw her mother hovering in the window valance and couldn’t understand why she would be there.
She received good kind care in the hands of CNAs whose role was to wash, feed, toilet, and then repeat for the rest of Ma’s days. My appreciation for these hardworking souls is unrivaled. Ma had her favorites at first. After a while, even that didn’t matter any longer.
As I massaged her unsupportive feet and legs, applying gallons of body lotion, we could no longer reminisce about our precious trips or lunches out as ladies holding teacups. She couldn’t hear me and she really couldn’t reply. Yet a serene look would come over her face as my hands swam across her body, a body that I had loved and held as tenderly as a baby. The gift of touch I would tell myself.
Knowing that her opinion of me had always run a bit towards the harsh rather than the forgiving didn’t matter. You love and you are unable to do otherwise, period. It didn’t matter, not anymore. That she found me tough and able to take care of myself freed her from a mother’s worry. It was good she never knew the full extent of my need.
We’d had those last decades to play at living, to enjoy a movie in the theater, to attending the grandchildren’s school events, to shopping for hours at Walmart, for seeing the trees in autumn, for simply sitting together in silence as the geese flew overhead.
My steps are slowing. My stubborn nature, not giving in to pain, is the inheritance she gave me. If I could, I’d tell her, “Thank you, Ma.”
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell