by Nancy Rommelmann
I’d like to introduce you to my mother. Not the woman I am sitting one foot away from in a Connecticut hospital bed, the skin on her hands as fragile as phyllo dough, the veins showing livid purple and the blue-green of old tattoos. Though it is true, her hands have always been this way.
“You have such beautiful big veins,” I recall six-year-old Karen telling my mother. Maybe it was during one of the weekends Karen’s mother and my mother, not yet 33, drove a carful of kids out to Westhampton, to an out-of-rental-season house along the beach road. The house had many wooden decks, it was always cold, and our first night there, I told my mom to add more water to the Lipton chicken soup mix; that it was too salty. Turned out there was salt water in the taps. It was the 70s, when kids were expected to stay outside until after dark and take out our own splinters, of which the decks supplied many. We slept in sandy beds while, my mother later told me, Karen’s mom went to the bar and brought home this or that new friend. My mother did not do this; she was not much of a drinker, though these were the days when parents did things we absorbed without understanding: the white lie about why dad had not come home, the woman’s voice that woke me late one August night in a different rental house, and my knowing her cries, which I at first mistook for the howls of a cat, had something to do with her husband and my mother.
“Mom, do you remember going to Westhampton?” I ask her now, interrupting her trying to eat a piece of chicken with a straw. She says yes and allows me to swap in a fork, it’s amazing how much she eats and yet keeps shrinking, 30 pounds gone since last fall, her legs not much more than long bones now. I’ve asked the nurses how this happens; how she burns so many calories while hardly moving.
Or hardly moving but for her hands, ever looking for something to fix, folding and refolding a cloth, picking a shred of cheese from her blouse, holding my right hand in both of hers and pumping up and down for four minutes. I cannot glean the reasoning here, just as I could not see why, in the month before he died, my father held my wrist and stared in otherworldly fascination at my watch-face for 20 minutes. I asked my resolutely unspiritual (unless you count basketball and opera) math-savant dad, then, whether he was between here and some other next place.
He considered this. “I think so,” he said. And was it okay? Yes, he said; it was.
What else can I tell you about my mother? That the only picture she carries in her purse is one of herself. That the orange VW bug she drove us around in as kids had a bike rack and a ski rack and a bumper sticker that read, “Lacrosse: The Fastest Game on Two Feet.” That she used to wake up my brother and me by singing, “Everybody was kung fu fighting!” That when she walked, which she can no longer do, it was faster than any of us, she was ever in motion; even when she slept, she rocked and rocked and woke up in the mornings with her hair all ruched on one side. She also talked so fast that my father said, if he weren’t around her for a few weeks, he couldn’t understand her; that he could not keep up.
What sentences my mother starts now usually trail off. She does not seem bothered by this. We are past the being bothered years, the taking mom's word for things years, the hiding the car keys and then disconnecting the battery years, the calling the oil company to see if I can wrest back some the excess $11,000 mom has sent, mailing check after check in an attempt to stay on top of her bills. It brings me no joy to see the fight gone out of her, while understanding, it makes it easier, in some ways, for the rest of us.
My favorite thing to do now is to make her smile. She is always happy to see me, to see my brother, my daughter. She knows us still, though sometimes she will say, to me, "It's been so long since I've seen Nancy."
But then, she can surprise. "You have a skirt on," she tells me, just now. Also, "I'd like to know in advance..." before looking back at the TV. My mother, who never watched television, is now enamored of cop shows, "Law & Order SUV" and "Chicago PD."
"That's my guy," she told me, as recently as three months ago, of Jason Beghe.
"This was less than a year ago," my daughter says, sending a video of my mother half-running to greet her.
There will be no more running, not after the broken hip. The previous rehab facility was gruesome, garbage on the floors, an orderly yelling that his paycheck wasn't available. The staff where she is now is cheerful and attentive, and I try, as I did when looking at my mother's hands, to find the beauty: the woman two doors down cooing in German to a plastic baby doll. P., her lipstick perfectly applied, waiting in her wheelchair by the nurses' station like a real-life Delta Dawn.
My mother has buried three husbands, none of whom took the slow leave taking. My dad had lunch at his assisted living facility and, while talking to the nurses, went weak-kneed. They were tucking him in bed and, he dipped. Very elegant. My stepdad died after a short hospitalization. I was with him and, as I wrote, “There was so much beauty at the moment of death, near audible like a sip through a straw rushing into the night, the skin on his face going taut in an instant, and the color of beeswax.” My mother's last husband shrank and shrank from leukemia, my mother was with him when he died. Afterwards, she told me, she fell on her hands and knees into a snow-bank and shouted to the air, "I can't do this!" But she could. If I had a dollar for everyone who's ever said to me, "Your mother is a force of nature," I would have enough to buy her a fine steak dinner, though it might be wasted on her.
"The first time I took her out, she ordered a steak well done," my dad would say, insinuating, it had almost been a dealbreaker.
What can I tell you about my mother? That she painted super-graphic stripes, including up and around a set of pocket doors, down the long hallway of our apartment. That she was a very good tennis player. That she grew up working-class on Long Island and wound up traveling the world. That at 25 she lost her own mother, a Greek immigrant who had my mother at 17, and missed her every day. I am hoping that whatever next place my dad saw, my mother gets to meet her mother there.
"I'm going to go now, Mom," I tell her tonight, and she forms her first sentence in three hours. "Is there enough?" she asks, and I don’t know how to answer.
The Slow Leave Taking: On Watching My Mother Slip Away