THE 72 to the PALAIS

Today marks the one year anniversary of my mother's passing. A few weeks after she died, I wrote the following little story to honour her and keep the memory of her close to my heart. Though it's not entirely factual (my mom actually died just after a visit from Terry), most of the events of the story are a compilation of the little things that my mother said and did over her last few weeks. It is my pleasure to share this story with you.

The 72 to the Palais

“That’s much better. I didn’t realize it went back that far.”

“Need anything else?” I ask, now moving my mother’s wheelchair closer to the window.  “A blanket, a drink of juice maybe?”

“No thank you. I don’t need a thing. But, can I ask you a question?”  

This afternoon, my mother’s voice is as feeble as her ninety five year old body.  

“Of course,” I reply, as I sit close to her good ear.

“One more time, just how are you connected to me?”

“Mom, I’m your son Michael. Remember, you have five children: Yvonne, Michael, Peter, Paul and Michelle.  I’m retired now but I used to work as...”

Her eyelids slowly close and I know she’s drifted back to sleep. Over two years ago, a cardiologist said my mother was living on borrowed time explaining that she was too old for mitral valve surgery.

“She has four leaky heart valves,” he said earnestly. “Your mother will be lucky to make it to Christmas.”

That was Christmas 2013. So much for the expert.

Awake again, she stares out her small window and I wonder whether a blind person like my mother can sense how today’s fresh snow brightens the January landscape.

Turning to me she asks,

“Is this the 72?”

“The 72?” I repeat, trying to follow.

“I like streetcars. Daddy used to take Ernie and me on the streetcar every summer on our way to Centre Island.”

I always marvel at my mother’s recall of the long ago.

“Now I know you told me already but what’s your name again?”

“It’s Michael,” I answer patiently.

“How old are you, may I ask?”

“I’m 66.”

“Oh, you’re still a chicken” she replies. “You know, I have a son named Michael. He lives just up the street but he doesn’t visit me too often. He’s a school teacher.”

“I’m a teacher too,” I offer.

“Is your mother still alive?” she asks innocently.

“Yes, she is.”

“Oh, you’re so lucky.”

This is such a familiar dance; one that used to break my heart when my mother lived under my roof. Now it’s much easier or at least a bit easier to surrender my identity to what the nursing home doctor calls vascular dementia.

A gentle knock on the door announces a PSW entering the room. Virgie is my mother’s primary caregiver this afternoon.

In her cheery Filipino accent, she greets me with,

“Hello Maw-kil. How are you today?”

“Good, good,” I answer hastily, trying to hide my anxiety. “I see my mom has a pillow under her arm.”

Virgie replies, “Your mom had quite a bit of edema around her wrist this morning. That’s why it’s raised.”

Turning to my mother, she says, “And I don’t think you slept very well last night, did you Dorine?”

My mother doesn’t answer. I make a mental note to change her hearing aid battery before I leave.

“Peach juice or apple juice for your mother?” Virgie asks me.

“Let’s try peach juice,” I say, thanking this guardian angel before she quietly pushes the drink cart out of the room.

Holding the cup to my mother’s lips, some of the honey-thick liquid drips from the corner of her mouth and I reach for the serviette that sits in her lap.

“Don’t take that,” she protests mildly. “That’s my ticket.”

I realize I’m still along for the ride.  Wiping her lips with a tissue from the bedside table, I cradle the back of her head with my other hand. Aware of my touch, she responds.

“My hair must look a fright. I didn’t get a chance to comb it this morning.”

 Actually, my mother hasn’t had the strength to comb her own hair since she arrived at the home eight months ago.

“It looks a lot better than mine,” I reply, taking her hand and guiding it over my chrome dome.

She smiles.  
Mission accomplished, I think to myself.

“Say, do you want to listen to your story, mom?”

When I helped my mother compose an account of her life several years ago, little did I imagine that one day it would be one of her last tethers to this world.

I sigh in relief as she answers in the affirmative. Unlike my wife Terry, I’m not one who easily carries on a one-sided dialogue.

Her hands unsteady, my mother begins tugging on the plastic oxygen tube going into her nose. It must be such an uncomfortable thing.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“That’s your oxygen mom, to help you breathe,” I say, putting the clear tube back in place.

Then holding her right hand in mine, I begin her story. It takes about twenty minutes to read from start to finish but it’s the first half, the part about her growing up in the Beaches area of Toronto, that still holds her interest. It wasn’t always like that. There was a time when she enjoyed the parts about my dad the most but now it seems she’s lost him. Her own father is the one who’s taken centre stage along with her mother and three sisters:  Ernestine, Theresa and Anne. From all accounts, my mother had a wonderful and secure childhood despite growing up in the time of the Great Depression and the threat of another World War.

As well as discovering that my mother’s early life had a richness I could never have imagined, her childhood reminiscences  provide glimpses of the innocent and playful girl that my father fell in love with.

Suddenly, a violent cough overwhelms her beleaguered body. She leans forward in her chair, gasping for breath, gurgling sounds coming from her throat. I feel so helpless watching my mother suffer. I know patting her on the back will do little to help with her discomfort but I have to do something. Mercifully, the disturbing visitor leaves as quickly as it came.

“That’s a heck of a thing,” she says, humbly forgiving this repeat offender.

“Just a bad cold mom,” I reply.

I hate lying but I can’t tell her that her persistent cough is a telltale sign of a heart that’s failing badly. She settles back in her chair as if nothing has happened.

Dementia can be a good thing at times.

“Hey Mom,” I say, “Let’s go to the sitting room. It’s a lot brighter there.”

I’m lying again. In truth, I feel trapped. Though a few family pictures hang on the walls of her room, it still reminds me of a hospital.

My mother’s eyes close again.  Her breathing is quite laboured and the rattle in her throat frightens me. As I pass the nursing station, I ask if she can have more Lasix.

“Maybe when her blood pressure is a bit higher,” says Anica, the efficient head nurse. “Your mom, she looks comfortable. I’ll take her pressure just before dinner.”

“Fa-la,” I say, my thanks surprising Anica in her native Croatian.

“You know Croatian?” she asks incredulously.

“Sure,” l say. “And just wait ‘til I’ve mastered hello and good bye.”

I get my second smile of the afternoon.

Entering the vacant sitting room, I wait for my mom to reawaken. How I long for a real conversation with her. It seems like it’s been forever since she shared anything with me beyond the most basic level. Our last meaningful conversation took place over a year ago. I still remember it verbatim.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “That’s no way to live. I think I’ve been afraid much of my life: afraid of making a mistake; afraid of saying the wrong thing; afraid I might die of a second stroke.”

That explained so much.

You see, my father was a man who knew no boundaries. A successful insurance man, Neil embraced life with irrepressible enthusiasm. Like a gregarious ringmaster, he seemed happiest when he had two or three projects on the go at the same time. In contrast, my mother was the one who usually stayed within the lines, moderation her default setting. When dad passed away twenty six years ago, I thought my mother would have a difficult time of it. And yet, with the support of family and friends, she managed well despite the onset of macular degeneration.

“Two on the 72,” she mumbles sleepily.

She tries to shift in her chair but with her legs elevated in the foot rest, it’s hard for her to get comfortable.

“Are you OK?” I ask, pulling her blanket up a bit higher over her blue sweater.

“Well, I don’t feel like dancing,” she replies, a ragged cough punctuating her reply.

That familiar refrain is as close as my mother ever gets to complaining. Her lament reminds me that dancing was once a big part of her life. As a small child, she loved to dance with her cousins to the records on her auntie’s gramophone. Later, she did the Lindy and the Swing to the music at the young people’s club and on very special occasions, she’d dance the night away at the Palais Royale.

She lifts her small head ever so slightly.

“Were you just talking to our driver?”

“Yes,” I reply, now more comfortable being on board with her.

 “He’s such a nice man. Very gentle. He came by once before to pick me up in a white Cadillac but I wasn’t quite ready.”

All men are gentle to my mother now.

“Did you want to say a rosary?” I ask.

“I didn’t get that,” my mom replies.

I must change that battery, I chide myself.

“Do want to do a rosary?” I repeat using a deeper tone.

“That’s a good idea,” she answers. “You can lead it.”

Her body relaxes. She closes her eyes as I place her smooth wooden rosary in her hands. These days, my mother is more familiar with God than anyone else. I envy that. Somehow I think it’s the prayers of people like my mother that keep this world turning on its axis.

 Icy snow crystals begin to tap on the fifth floor window as we finish the last decade. Surprisingly, the sound catches my mother’s attention.

“What’s that noise?” she asks, eyelids opening wide. Somehow, she looks much younger.

“It’s snowing again, mom,” I reply.

Her face is glowing.

“There’s Ernie and Theresa coming out of the Prince of Wales. I wonder what picture they saw?”

I’m touched by her imaginings.

“I’m on holidays, you know, from Margaret Jean’s.”

I don’t respond, fearing that I might derail things by asking about her work at the hairdressers. Gently, I begin moving her wheelchair out of the lounge and down the hall toward the nursing station where I’ll leave her before I go.

“We’re coming up to Coxwell,” she says, trying to raise her hand. “Look. There’s George running down the street. Dinner must be early at the Imlach’s tonight.”

Now I’m the one playing the smiling game.

“And there’s Daddy walking home from work. He looks so handsome in his new hat.”

For a few fleeting moments, her voice takes on a girlish lilt.

 “I wonder why we’re stopping?” she asks, as I park her wheelchair. “Oh my, here comes our driver. He wants everyone to get off here, everyone but me.” 

How perfect, I think to myself, as I clasp her hands and bend down to kiss her goodbye.

“That’s so nice,” she replies, her voice barely audible. “Thank you, Neil. Yes, I’m ready dear. Let’s go to the Palais.” 

After months of worrying about the ending of my mother’s story, I realize its last scene is tenderly playing out before me.

She hasn’t forgotten him after all.

Words fail me as I kiss her forehead again.

“Are you alright?” a passing PSW asks.

“I’m fine,” I reply, wiping a few tears on my sleeve. “Just saying goodbye to my mom.”

For some reason, I don’t want to sound an alarm.

“Your mom is a real sweetheart,” she says supportively. “I wish her all the best.”

“So do I, so do I,” I murmur.

My mother is far away now. All colour has left her cheeks. She is peaceful at last.

And so am I.

Take care of her dad, I pray quietly.

Take care of her and enjoy the dancing.