'The Mother Who Raised Me is Gone'

At 87, with significant dementia, my mom is still my teacher and my inspiration. She was the sixth child born to immigrant parents just before the start of the Great Depression, an unexpected bonus baby. The whole family lived in a two-bedroom flat in the city. Both of her parents died before she turned 23.  

She saw three of her four brothers return from war, the fourth became a Catholic priest. Faith and family strength were the cornerstones to her marriage with my dad.  

I, like my mother, was the unexpected bonus baby in the family, the only daughter.   

My parents instilled the importance of family and faith in my brothers and myself.

Dad was a successful dentist. Despite the financial comfort, higher education, respect and a good work ethic were the standard in our family. If we couldn’t find a summer job the hours were spent painting walls, washing and fixing windows or stripping floors or laundry. They ran a tight ship and we learned life lessons on the value of money, hard work, and respect.

My mom was an excellent chef and we were all her assistants. She often said, “If you left my house and couldn’t cook and clean, I failed you as a mother.”

Mom and I always enjoyed a close relationship throughout the years. She dried my tears through the drama of girls in teen years; she was my fashion consultant and confidant.   

We’d go shopping, have lunch and always do something fun when my dad took the guys (my brothers) fishing. We shared hobbies of knitting, sewing, movies with popcorn and a love of rose gardening.  

The real wisdom and appreciation of my mom’s knowledge came when I had kids of my own. I could always call her and ask her advice. Family picnics were always extra fun with Grammy teaching us cards and scrabble, helping us go snipe hunting or a double cone ice cream cones on summer days. Whether it was what to make with the pork roast I was planning for dinner or what to do with two bickering children, mom always had an answer and a little pearl of wisdom to go along with it.  

Yet that really wasn’t the whole story yet.

Nine years ago my brother passed away suddenly, and my father passed seven months later. These events left us grieving, yet once again I saw my mother’s strength and faith in God help her cope with these losses. Despite the devastation of these losses, she would be the constant source of reassurance for me.

She started showing the beginning signs of dementia, and the realization of her limitations began to sink in. Despite her significant vocal objections, my brother Paul and I moved her to a continuous care facility closer to me. Moving her into a new continuous care community at 82, “where Jesus left his sandals,” my mom once again taught us the lessons of resilience, grace and courage as she settled in the new community and made new friends.  

It took her a while to admit to others that it was a good move, but she never admitted it to me because she had more to teach me. So many times I visited her and shared with her the troubles of my kids, co-workers, friends and my dear husband. She was always a great listener and will never breathe a word of what I share with her, dementia working in my favor now. With a smile on her face and dry sense of humor she always added her twist or opinion on it, winding it up with a pearl of wisdom. I would walk away feeling her hand on my shoulder.

I still visit as often as I did in the past, but sometimes mom isn’t with me. The mother who raised me is gone. The comforting mother full of wisdom still shows up on a good day, but it’s usually a few well-chosen words, a twinkle in her eye or a teasing comment. I still get a big smile and “my Baby” when I hug her, but other words get confused. As we visit now, the dry humor and teasing still surface.