I woke up melancholy yesterday morning, and realized it was because today was my dear Mom's yahrzeit -- the anniversary of her death. She died on April 27, 2013. Wow -- those eleven years seem far fewer.
Mom had an amazingly full and lucky life until she was 89. That's when she crashed her car and had to give up driving. It seems that began a slow but steady decline over the following 4 years.
When she was 91, we knew it was time for her to move to an ALF, and I took her for an evaluation at Miami Jewish. I knew it was falling to me to supervise her final years, and I wasn't going to drive to Palm Beach County to do it. She was "accepted" into the ALF, which I always found the height of black humor -- being accepted into a place where you decline like you get accepted into a college.
We were all set for the move, and then the following week, I visited her, and she broke down, pleading with me to let her stay in her small Delray condo. She loved it there, though most of the day she spent cleaning up the messes from her incontinence. She had a friend come in a few times per week, Louise, who would take her shopping and to appointments. She was not incompetent, and so she got her wish.
The decline continued, with multiple calls to Delray EMS when she would fall and be unable to get up, like the ad we all lampoon. After two door break ins, I told her she couldn't lock her front door anymore, to give access to the EMTs. She agreed, and typically they would arrive, help her up like one flips over a turtle stuck on its shell, and she would crawl on.
Finally, in April of 2012, there was a bad fall, and they took her to Delray Hospital. My brother Eric was her doc, and he reported her albumin levels were consistent with starvation -- she wasn't eating enough to live. That became the "no more monkeys jumping on the bed" moment, and I made plans to move her to Miami Jewish -- now to full nursing home, as she had skidded past the ALF level.
It was the end of D2's semester at UF, and so I flew up to Gville, with plans to stop at Delray and fetch Grandma and take her to Little Haiti. We did, and then on the drive, I thought she had died, as D2 happily played on her phone in the back seat of the Volvo sedan. Oh crap, I thought, I visited upon my sacred daughter trauma that would last forever -- knowing she drove an hour with her dead grandma in the seat in front. Luckily, around Hollywood, Mom awoke, and I breathed a comically loud sigh of relief.
We got her to the facility by nightfall, and that began the final chapter. Steve, an affable estate lawyer, came by and we set up all the final trusts and a Lady Bird Deed, which gave Mom's condo to my sisters and I, to pass to us upon her death.
And the final 11 months passed nicely -- my friend Mirta visited her twice a week, and truly enjoyed Mom's company. I would visit, and take her to a gazebo under ancient oaks, where there was an ice cream machine, and Mom LOVED the chipwich it dispensed.
The only truly sad thing involved her favorite grandson -- he never visited. He claimed it was because his grandma's physical appearance saddened him too much. She would always ask about him, and at first I would lie about how "busy he was" but then I would just change the subject. It brought to mind the great book Ulysses, and how Stephen's mother "lay beastly dead" since her son hadn't visited her. Hey -- everyone must have a reason for doing whatever they do, I guess.
Anyway, on April 13, we celebrated Mom's 93rd. My in laws were there, as my father in law had joined her as a resident of Miami Jewish. My Ds were there, as was my Florida sister and her daughter and family. Mirta was there. And the beloved grandson's ex wife and daughters were there, too, a final, classy act to a loving, wonderful woman.
We ate cake, and Mom toasted "Happy New Year!" She was indeed out of it, and two weeks later, died in the early morning.
Mirta had been there with her late into the night, arguing with the staff about getting her more morphine as she was very uncomfortable. Mirta was going to spend the night, but I told her to leave -- I would go first thing the next am. I stopped next to MJH to get gas, and the call came in -- she had just passed.
Barry was there -- he had wanted to visit her. He thought he'd see a living lady -- he was off by a day. Wifey was there with her Dad, who had a major fear of death, and I heard Wifey coming down the hall with him -- I tried to semiphore her away, and finally ran up to them to have Wifey return him to his room.
The funeral guy got there later, but not much, and we watched as he gently put Mom into a blue velvet bag and took her tiny body away. She probably weighed about 70 lbs or so -- the large man had no problem doing it on his own.
The Ds met us at Soyka, the restaurant we would typically visit after Miami Jewish visits, and we toasted a wonderful, loving woman, who was blessed with a long and mostly very happy life.
I will tell her story each year. If there's an after life, I hope her soul soars with my Dad's together, like the young lovers they were in Pasadena during WW II.
If they are looking down, I know they're smiling at my Ds, their men, and 2 grandsons who bear both their names -- the bigger one in his middle name, and the little guy's name sharing my Mom's letter S.
And we beat on, as Fitzgerald wrote, hopefully enjoying each day as much as my Mom enjoyed those chipwiches under the oak trees.
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