living at the cemetery

At age 78 my father died before my mom, of lung cancer within just six weeks of diagnosis, although he had never smoked a cigararette, cigar or pipe. Mom had a long, gradual loss of brain function to Alzheimer's, and when Dad died she was at that stage when she seemed pretty normal on the surface, until she'd do or say something odd. For instance she would get up at 2am, take everything out of the refrigerator, and spread it out on the kitchen table for breakfast, then go wake whoever was sleeping to come and eat.

(After Dad died, my sister Nancy took care of Mom for a grueling and heartbreaking six months in our family home, until Nancy thought she'd lose her mind, and we moved Mom into a charming home where people with dementia were given expert and loving care, where she lived until she died in her sleep 18 months later.)

In the busy days when we were working out arrangements for Dad's funeral (he was a small town minister, so choosing the right minister and deciding which of the two town funeral homes were tough decisions), Mom would wake up each morning and ask, "Where's Daddy?" even though she saw him take his last breath on his hospice bed set up in the dining room, surrounded by all but one of their 8 children, some of their spouses and some grandchildren. We would tell her, each time, "Dad died, Mom." And she'd begin to wail, as if hearing it for the first time. "How did he die? Oh, I can't believe it!"

After the funeral and hubbub were over and it was just the two of them at the house, Nancy was daily repeating this answer to Mom's morning question, with the same resulting fresh grief. One day Nancy realized she needed to utilize "Alzheimer's logic" and not worry about little things like telling the truth - not easy for a minister's daughter.

So when Mom asked one morning, "Where's Daddy?" Nancy replied, "Dad lives at the cemetery now, Mom."

Mom: "Oh! Really! Oh, that's nice."

It clicked, it was fine. No more grief. In fact whenever friends came to pay a visit, she would tell them "Carl lives in the cemetery now," to explain his absence.

I leave you with a portrait of Mom at the start of her brilliant life (at about the same age as I am in the top photo), before graduating high school and starting Smith College at age 16, before being crowned Best Athlete in both schools (field hockey in which she could play both right and left wing, swimming, tennis, basketball), before developing her encyclopedic mind, before expert proficiency at the piano, before writing scores of songs (including this one written to the tune Finlandia by Jean Sibelius; this one is sung on Mother's Day at churches throughout the U.S., because there are very few hymns written about family), before devoting her life to God as much as any nun except that she married, before loving each of us 8 kids with Mother's Day cards at breakfast, telling us she wouldn't be a mother if it weren't for us.

Mom's birthday is tomorrow, June 26. I didn't even remember that until now, a few hours after posting this. I guess she is in the air.