Conversations with Mamaw
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
She didn't see me walk in the kitchen or notice that I was standing behind her. She looked smaller but still pretty and had a pleasant look on her face as she raised her glass of apple juice to the table of five other elderly people and said, "Cheers!"
I touched her shoulder, she turned and smiled big, "Oh! It's you!"
I last saw Mamaw in September and she was still living in a two-bedroom apartment at an assisted living facility. She was in the moment, but aware her short-term memory was poor and her physical strength was deteriorating. Several weeks later, she had an abrupt decline in her cognitive and physical health. Dad had to make the difficult decision to move her to a residential group home. Mamaw, although tired and confused, agreed and didn't debate the decision. She's been living in a house with seven other elderly people, all requiring significant care.
I said, "Look who I brought. It's Toddler Child." She was happy and thought for a moment, "Now, am I his great-aunt?" I told her no, that she was his great-grandmother. "Oh, hells bells. Of course I am. Damn, Chrisy. Getting old is for the birds. I mean to tell you."
We went to her room. It's a generous bedroom that accommodates her desk, a queen-size bed, and an easy chair with a footstool. She asked for a pillow and tossed it on the floor when I handed it to her. I wasn't sure what she was going to do. She began to lower herself in an effort to sit on the floor. I asked her what she was doing. She said she wanted to play cars with Toddler Child.
Toddler Child asked for a stick of gum. Mamaw said, "I haven't had bubble gum in years. Could I have a piece?" I said, "Sure. But I'm gonna tell you what I tell Toddler Child, chew, chew, chew. Don't swallow it." She laughed, took the gum and chewed it for the remainder of our visit. When I returned the following day, her chewed gum was stuck to the lamp on her nightstand. She was saving it.
We thought it would be nice to get some fresh air and walk around the backyard. I asked Mamaw if I could help her up from her spot on the floor. She declined and said she's more comfortable figuring it out for herself. I said, "If you get hurt, Dad's gonna kill me." "Don't you worry," she said.
We stopped in the bathroom across the hall before heading outside. Mamaw wanted to grab a tissue. We tried to take an artsy-fartsy picture. I can never do this right, but Mamaw seemed to enjoy it.
While we were outside I asked Mamaw if she was happy. She said, "Oh, in a perfect world, I'd have my own little house, and my own yard, but an older person needs help with the details of life. I can't manage the details anymore." She also said, "Being older is one of the most difficult times of my life. It's terrible when you can't remember things. All I really hope for now is that I die without a struggle, and in my sleep." I told her I hoped that for her too.
Mamaw and I have talked about death openly since I was a little girl. I vividly remember asking her questions about death, heaven, fear, pain, if anyone she'd buried had ever contacted her. She always took me seriously and answered honestly, even when she didn't really know the answer. When I was about 10 years old, I respectfully requested that upon her death, she please contact me to tell me what the real story was, but only if she could do it without frightening me. She agreed.
The first day I visited Mamaw she wasn't wearing her signature red lipstick. We arrived while she was eating lunch, and the excitement of our visit threw off her routine. She'd had her hair done earlier that morning so she looked pretty and coiffed. She prefers her naturally curly hair a little less "done" but was happy to have the shampoo and cut.
When I returned the following day, without Toddler Child, we were able to lounge on her bed together and talk. Like girls at a slumber party. She had run a comb through the coiffed hairdo and tried to get her natural curls to do their thing, and she had on her red lipstick.
We chatted, she touched me a lot, and I her. We looked at our nails and fluffed our hair, sifted through old cards and letters in her desk, and talked about death, again.
I said, "Mamaw, I'll be back in a few months, and Chris and all three boys will be with me." "Good!" she said. I said, "Now please don't forget, if and when you die, I really want you to contact me, but ONLY if you don't scare me."
"God I'm glad you reminded me of that, Honey. That's always been important to you. I'll do it. But only if I can't scare you? What if I have to startle you a little?"
I said, "Use your best judgment, but err on the side of caution."
She laughed and gave me a little smack.
Reader Comments (32)
Love,Claire
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My mother is now 83 and we just moved her from her house, where she'd been living alone and isolated, into an assisted living facility nearer to my brothers and their families. I thought of her while reading about your Mamaw getting on the floor to play with cars - my mom could never do that. Not just because her body can't but because she has somehow lost the ability to play, to be interested, to enjoy life.
My mother in law is the same age, and she WOULD certainly do that - I am truly filled with sorry that my own mother is both so physically disabled and has lost the ability to enjoy life.
Enjoy your darling Mamaw, who seems so very young, even though her body is old.
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She sounds like a peach, and the two of you sound as though you have such a lovely relationship.
What a beautiful tribute to Mamaw.
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Priceless. I cried . . .
What a woman!
P.S. If she gets hold of you postmortem, please fill me in . . .
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You just made me miss my grandmother something fierce, but it's okay, because I know she's around here someplace from time to time.
Next time you see Mamaw, please give her a hug for me. You can tell her it's an extra hug you found lying around on the road and figured it must belong to her.
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g - Mamaw is 91 years old.
Baroness - Thank you.
Kate - I've written more about Mamaw. I don't think the blog's the best place for all of it though. Thank you for being interested in her.
TysDaddy - Okay. So far, I need to contact you and Rena. Got it!
Lady Fi - How wonderful that she could travel at the age of 90! Mamaw's traveling days have come to an end. Sadly.
Joannie - I know you would love spending time with her. She's spirited, like you! She'll enjoy the hug. Thanks.
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My Nana took care of me for the first two years I was new at earth. And again when my parents had to go into the Gulf War. And again when I screwed up badly and ran away from home. Now she doesn't remember my name.
*Sigh.
Can I share your Mamaw? :'(
*Sniff
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Your Mamaw is just beautiful, too. I love how she got down on the floor to play cars.
You are lucky to have each other. Tell me what she tells you about death.
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Love to Mamaw!
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Robin - You remember Mamaw, don't you? I love you too.
Pum'kin - OMG! You absolutely can share my Mamaw. She would adore you! As do I!
I'm terribly sorry about your Nana. So difficult when the special ones start slipping away. Even though we know it's coming, it's still impossible to imagine life without them.
Bobbi - No! No! No! There will no startling. Period.
Deb - It's funny, because when I read your posts about Rebecca, I often thought of Mamaw. How blessed are we to have experienced such amazing, mature women in this life? I'll email you Mamaw's take on death.
Connie - You're sweet. I'm sorry your little ones won't know their grandmothers. You'll have to write lots of stories for them. :)
Sherri - Thank you Sherri. Your thoughts mean much to me.
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This makes me not look forward to getting old.
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(PS - thank you for the lovely things you wrote on my last post. You have a way of convincing me it isn't all just piffle. It means a lot to me.)
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I liked her comment about the details of life. I hope that I am like her when I get to be that age.
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You reminded me that I had a pact like that with a childhood friend. We wrote out a contract and signed it in blood. I really hope she doesn't follow through. I haven't seen her in decades. It would be awkward.
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Joe Girl - I do cherish her. Thank you.
Father Muskrat - I'm sorry. It makes me want to be kinder and more compassionate to older people. They've really lived and deserve a dignified ending.
We Be Toys - Mamaw says many things like "hells bells". She's great. Your last post was amazing. Truly.
Tristan - I hope I'm like her too.
Jessica - I hope you have a good relationship with your Dad, at least. That's too bad you didn't now your grandparents. I realize what a gift it is.
Jim - She has always been the adult who wanted to get on the floor with the kids. She has been the adult who really listens to what we have to say.
Mrs. Maxwell - I am so flattered. Thank you.
Tinsenpup - That's funny. Maybe it wouldn't be as awkward as you think...
Cat - I appreciate you reading and leaving a comment. Truly.
The Floydster - Thank you Anne.
Mama Dawg - No problem-o. I appreciate everyone taking the time to read it. She's so special to me.
Jennifer - Will do! Nice to see you again ;)