Mom and Billy Graham

In the autumn of 1950, some months after Dad married my new step mom, I came into the house one evening and found her with her ear pressed to the radio.  I knew who was speaking and I wasn’t happy about it. It was the popular new evangelist, Billy Graham.  I had nothing against him in particular.  It was just that my new stepmother was an unknown quantity.  I had been told by a friend of our family, someone who was apparently already acquainted with my dad’s new fiancee, how lucky I was to have this lovely new stepmother. She said I should do my very best not to give this paragon any trouble, as if it would be my fault if the marriage didn't work out. Although I did not exactly like the life my grandparents lead while I lived with them—the long nights at the Eagles’ Club, the drinking, the fighting—still, it was what I was used to. I did not want a suffocating piety to descend on the family.  I had just turned ten. 

During the next twelves years, while my father was alive, Mom appeared to put her religious yearnings on the shelf. She followed my dad dutifully into his county-club life, taking golf lessons, hosting cocktail parties and dressing up for weekend evenings at the club.

She also turned out to be the promised lovely stepmother. She largely understood me and often took my side against my father and grandmother, who could be over-protective.  We could talk about a lot of things together, except for sex and religion.

“But what about the people who never had a chance to hear about Jesus? Are they all going to hell?”  I would ask.

“We are not meant to understand things like that,” she would reply.

“But what about all that scary stuff in the Book of Revelation?”

“We are not meant to understand things like that.”

After my dad died, she regularly attended First Presbyterian Church.  If the sermons in this mainline church did not sound the same as the sermons of the conservative Presbyterian church she attended as a girl, she most certainly found echoes of her childhood church in the words of Billy Graham.  She also enjoyed the elaborate telecasts of D. James Kennedy and Robert Schuller. Sunday nights were reserved for Charles Stanley.  She liked his habit of providing an outline of his sermon before he began. She filled several notebooks with his words. However, it was Billy whom she loved the most. He was almost like a member of the family to her. 

That was why it should have been no surprise to me when she began crying in the mid-80’s as we were pulling into our motel at Ocean City, MD.  We were on vacation with her and our two school-age daughters. All three of them were in the back seat of our station wagon. 

“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Harold,” she sobbed.

“What about him?” Harold had been my dad’s best friend and drinking buddy. Neither one of them ever had time for church.  Harold had recently died quietly, but unexpectedly, at home.

“I can’t stand the thought of him burning in hell,” she said, tearfully.

“Oh, Mom,” I began, “Harold isn’t . . .”

“GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN!” she snapped.  I meekly retreated, ready to drop the subject.

Twenty years passed and Mom was living with us.  One day she said to me, “Your husband doesn’t love the Lord.”

Now my husband, like my dad, rarely went to church, although he had fond memories of attending church with his parents when he was a boy.   He had treated her with good-natured kindness ever since she had moved in with us. “Mom, why would you think that?" I asked. 

“Don’t you remember, when we were in Ocean City, that time he piped up about Harold? I told him to ‘get thee behind me’ and he never said another word!”

“Oh, Mom,” I said, not wanting to revisit that topic again by telling her it was I who’d tried to comfort her.  However, I couldn’t help but wonder why she had been so anxious about where Harold was spending eternity and  not at all worried about my dad.

Georgie

Our little cat died at the end of April. Her designated birthday was January 1, 2004, so she enjoyed just 6 of her allotted 9 lives.

Enjoy them she did. We got her in 2007 after Mom's ancient cat, "Sadie the Lady," died. At first,  Mom insisted, "I don't want another cat." A few months later, she said,"I think I want another cat." So we began looking at second-hand cats. We visited a cat sanctuary, where the home owner sheltered at least 20 homeless cats. "How many do you have?" I asked. "I have no idea" was the reply. None of the candidates passed muster. Wrong color. Wrong fur. Wrong face. Too big. Too active. Too old. Too young. She fell in love with a tiny tuxedo kitten, but decided that he was "too wild."

"I'm not putting Arlo through that, " she said. Arlo was our aging beagle.

We went home catless.

Mom eventually settled on an older tuxedo. A cat-rescue person brought Samantha and Georgie to our house. Although Samantha was too timid to come out of  her carrier, Georgie ventured right out, boldly exploring every corner of Mom's "apartment" as if to say, "Yes, this will do just fine."

She was a lovely, affectionate cat. Every afternoon she and Mom took a nap. When Mom sat in her chair at other times, Georgie often curled up on her lap. She was such a sweet cat that the teen-aged cat-sitter who fed her when we were away spent nearly an hour a few hours before she died, just sitting with her and tenderly stroking her soft fur.

 Mom always said, "No one loves animals like me. Phil and Cynthia like animals, but they do not love them and they don't know how to take care of them."

What do you do when you're 99 and afraid of dying and leaving your orphaned baby to inadequate foster parents? Mom's initial idea was to meet up with Georgie outside the Pearly Gates. "When I die, I want you to have Georgie put to sleep," Mom told our daughter, Margaret. "Cynthia will just shut her up in my apartment and I can't stand the thought of it."

After Margaret declined to send Georgie across the Rainbow Bridge, Mom turned to Pat. Pat was a friendly woman who loved animals and old people. She often visited Mom just to chat. Mom painted such a grim picture of Georgie's future that Pat readily agreed to take her after Mom died. I didn't know about these arrangements until Mom's memorial gathering at our house, when Pat asked, "When do you want me to pick up Georgie?"

Mom died in December, 2008. Despite her misgivings, Georgie had a pretty tolerable life with Phil and me. She enjoyed the run of the house, where she discovered and claimed several prime bird-watching windows. She batted toy mice around the family room.  She joined us on the couch for Netflix movies. She dined on all varieties of Fancy Feast. Her fake leopard-skin bed was warmed by a heat duct. Her shots were up to date and she had regular dental visits.

When our new puppy, Dilly, arrived last September, Georgie welcomed her with a swat on the rump. After that, it was hiss and make-up. There were daily sparring matches, which usually ended with Georgie dashing out of the room. She never stayed away for long. They might resume their quarrel when she returned or they just might cuddle up together on the couch.

Georgie was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer in January, 2014. Surgery bought her 15 good months and Dilly filled those months with fun.

And Then She Was Gone

Yesterday the ambulance came at noon and took Mom to the hospice's inpatient center. For nearly a week, she'd been in severe pain from a fall. She'd also become increasingly agitated, constantly trying to get out of bed despite extreme weakness. Her voice became like a little girl's. She spoke barely above a whisper; her wishes made no sense. When in bed, she wanted to be in her chair. Once in her chair, she wanted to go back to bed. She fell the other night while trying to get out of bed. Phil and I found her crumpled and shivering on the floor at 4 AM.

Yesterday, during the hospice nurse's visit, Mom was determined to get out of bed. Carol said, "Stay in bed, Sweetie." "I will," Mom would say, but within seconds she'd start struggling again.

Carol thought Mom might be experiencing "terminal agitation." When a couple of doses of morphine and Haloperidol failed to calm Mom, Carol suggested a short stay at the inpatient center. If Mom's agitation is indeed a sign that the end is near, then the Haloperidol might help her let go and pass away. If her agitation is due to pain or infection, the hospice center will treat the underlying condition and send her back to us.

It happened so suddenly. Binta, the home health care aide, was also here yesterday morning. She stripped the bed, cleaned Mom up, put her in a fresh nightie, and got her into her hooded winter coat for the ambulance ride. She also combed Mom's long hair and plaited it into a single braid. Mom looked so sweet. Still, it was sad to see her on that bright yellow gurney all ready to go, her hair in a braid. How furious she would have been about that hairdo just a month ago.

The Ball Is in My Court

The hospice nurse just called. She had spoken with the doctor who suggested that I "might want" to take Mom to the Emergency Room to have her wrist x-rayed for a possible hairline fracture. I don't want. Not after the awful experience we had when I took her to the Emergency Room on November 16th.

We arrived at 2 PM. Mom was in her bathrobe and so lethargic that she could hardly sit upright on her chair. "Triage" seemed to think that everyone else's problems were more serious, so we waited and waited. Finally, I dared to ask why all these other people were being seen ahead of my 99-year-old mother. I got a starchy, professional response: "Patients are seen in order of the urgency of their complaints." Didn't look to me as if anyone was bleeding to death from a gunshot wound. Everyone else seemed cheerful and ambulatory, even the guy who had been poked in the eye.

Finally, around 4, we were admitted to the Inner Sanctum. They drew Mom's blood and did an EKG. They put her on an IV, but as she got rehydrated, she got antsy. Tearing at the wires and tubes, she asked, "Why am I here?" "What are we waiting for?" Finally I approached the attending physician. She was wearing purple scrubs and rhinestone-studded high heels. The shoes irritated me.

"What are we waiting for?"

She turned poisonous eyes away from the computer screen for a moment and replied icily, "I am waiting for the results of the urinalysis."

"But you haven't done one yet."

"We most certainly did!" she snapped. She grabbed a printout and hurriedly scanned it. "Um, we seem to have missed that. Well, someone will be right in."

A nurse placed Mom on the bedpan and left. Forty minutes later, I went looking for her. She apologized for forgetting all about Mom, but Mom had been unable to urinate in any case. A technician came in to catheterize her. After several unsuccessful attempts, she called in a nurse to help. The ghouls finally got their specimen, which they sent to the lab.

Around 10:15, the doctor breezed back in. Ignoring me, she delivered a speech to Mom, who blinked at her uncomprehendingly. "Well, my dear," she proclaimed grandly, " I am sending you home. I am giving you a prescription for an antibiotic, which you can have your pharmacist fill tomorrow. I want you to see your regular doctor first thing in the morning."

We were home by 11 PM. Mom fell into bed, exhausted. I don't want to return to the Emergency Room. The hospice nurse says it's my call. The ball is in my court.

Two Thousand and One

Last night I heard Mom muttering, "Two thousand and one. Two thousand and one."

"What about two thousand and one, Mom?" I asked.

"That's how old I will be in April, " she replied.

"Independent" and feisty one day, lost in a fog the next.

Last weekend the Grand Dame of Independent Living was back in residence. She informed Phil that it was past time to feed Ramsey and Violet, because "those dogs are starving." She instructed me to wash her favorite slacks in cold water. I was to stop "babying" her because she has always "done for herself." This she said while shakily pouring boiling water into a cup for instant coffee. Finally, I was to take "that thing (walker) out of here." She did not need it. How many other 99-year-old women did I know who could get around as well as she? About that fall a week ago when she banged her head on a protruding corner and made half her face black-and-blue? It was nothing. I should stop making a mountain out of a, out of a . . .

Hotel California

Mom thinks that we are living in California.

Today she asked, "Have you ever considered going east?"

"Oh, yes, " I said. "Many times."

An Old Friend Remembers

The other day Mom's friend, Barbara, called. After handing the phone over to Mom, I heard her say, "Well, I'm fine, but everyone else here is crazy!"

It 's been a difficult week. Mom was unable to do much of anything for herself, but she was angry at me for, among other things, getting her breakfast. She tried to make coffee by spooning lots of instant coffee crystals into her electric teakettle. It boiled over, flooding the counter and spattering the wall.

"Why are you treating me like I was 12 years old?"

"Who ARE you? 'My daughter, Cynthia?' I don't have a daughter named Cynthia."

"Don't make me that toast again. (A favorite standby for years.) It was awful."

We spent 8 and 1/2 hours in the Emergency Room on Sunday. I'll probably write more about that later, because it was a horrendous experience. I know that Emergency Rooms everywhere are under fire and that what happened to Mom was probably typical. Still, this was no way to treat sick people, let alone an elderly woman. They got a few things right: they gave her fluids by IV and prescribed an antibiotic for her urinary tract infection and her abcessed tooth.

Another old friend of Mom's called yesterday. Mom has a coterie of younger friends who have kept in touch over the years. Ellen began her teaching career at the elementary school where Mom was principal. Ellen and the other teachers--all women--referred to Mom as "our pretty principal." To call her "pretty" doesn't capture the quiet, dark beauty she had as a young woman. Small, delicate features were set off by a mass of wavy black hair. Ellen told me that Mom broke many hearts. One suitor even offered Mom a diamond engagement ring. After she turned him down, he kept it in a safe deposit box, hoping that someday she'd change her mind.

I Want to Go Home!

I thought we had a pleasant afternoon yesterday. I found Mom's misplaced eyeglasses (wrapped in paper towels under a damp towel in a drawer), heated my neck wrap in the microwave to warm her cold fingers, got her vaporizer going for the winter, brought her a doll-sized chicken dinner to enjoy while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir made lovely music on TV. I even gave her the cupcake I'd brought home from church for myself. "Thank you, Honey," she said.

At 7 PM, I found her talking angrily to Phil in the family room. "I want to go home!" she announced.
"Mom, this IS your home," I said.
'This was NEVER my home. I want to be taken home now! If I could drive, I would leave this place tonight." Her coat, gloves, and purse were waiting on a chair in her sitting room.

We talked with her for over half an hour. It's the same-old same-old. She's worried about having to sell her "house," which is really not her house at all, but just a couple of rooms in the house that belongs to Phil and me.