Remembering our mothers

This is my Mum. 

Aged 86, she now lives in a nursing-home and is just a shadow of her old self.  Dementia has robbed her of the ability to recall what she was doing earlier in the day, or to have a proper conversation, or to concentrate for more than a few minutes on a book or television.

I moved out of home when I was 16 and so my strongest memories of my mother are from the days when she was full of energy and always had a dry remark or a witty comment to make.

'Waste not, want not' was her favourite saying, and we learnt that it was sinful to ever throw away anything that was still edible - or could be used again.

Despite her frugal ways, she loved to go shopping - especially when she could pick up a bargain. She also loved sport and played tennis and lawn bowls until a third hip replacement made it too risky. Having to relinquish her driver's licence in 2004 was a devastating event and she seemed to go downhill rapidly after that. 

I phoned Mum today to wish her a happy Mother's Day.  Over all those years since I left home, our regular phone calls have been the means of maintaining our link.  Today we had a superficial conversation over five minutes and then her interest waned.  Already, in our heads, we are having to say goodbye to the mother we knew.

Fellow blogger, limerick savant is hosting a Limerick of all Mothers Marathon to honour all mothers this Sunday.  Here is my contribution - for better or for verse ...

               * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

               My mother is little and frail

               Her memory has started to fail

               Her best days are over

               But still we all love her

               Like when she was hearty and hale

               * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Comments

[Tabor]

What a sweet memory of your mother. We all try to do the best with what we have I guess.

[Cecile Christensen]

Your personal description of your mother and her situation was a surprise. My mother died on December 18, 2005. I had just the same kind of telephone calls with her for the last six months of her life. I felt guilty for not being able to be with her and that the phone calls were all I could manage. They got shorter and shorter and I didn't realize until I read your description that my mother's condition was similar to your mother's. I wear her engagement ring on my right hand to remind me of her strength and her love.

This will be a strangely hollow Mother's Day for me without her. It's the first time in my life that I can remember not sending her something to celebrate her life on Mother's Day.

Thanks for writing about your mom today.

[Tjilpi]

Last night, when talking to my 87 year old Mum on the phone, she told me the following story.

On each Mother's Day, she would ask Dad,

"What have you got me?"

He would reply,

"Nothing. You're not my mother!"

I'm glad I've inherited aspects of wit from both of them.

Making that inheritance last is going to be my problem.

Please inform me if you detect early signs of medentia.

[Alice]

Although it's 22 years since my mother died, I realise how lucky I was that she was still mentally alert, although becoming a little frail physically. She was only 72 when she died, which certainly isn't really old (good heavens, it's only 10 years older than I am now!). I still have the last letter she wrote me, only a week before she died. An unremarkable letter that has assumed great importance to me.

It must be very hard for you, Jude, to see your mother fading from reality before your eyes.

[Anna]

She still has great physical presence, Jude, but it's tough to lose the essence of the person you care for. Hollow is the right word for how you feel on this particular day when your Mum is gone. I'm glad you telephone her.

[Sonia]

Jude, I agree with Alice, it must be very sad for you, to see your mother ill. But she still looks great in the photo.
Have a nice day.