Another Birthday To Remember...

 

July 16, 2008

There is an empty Colgate bottle sitting in our bathroom cabinet. It’s the type where the lid is upside down and the toothpaste flows downward. On the front, in faded Sharpie ink, the numbers 210 are written. I haven’t been able to bring myself to throw it away and Kim has been kind enough to not really mention it because she knows. She knows that it was in my mother’s bathroom apartment the months before she died; before she was no longer able to have her teeth brushed and we quietly quit trying. We brought the bottle with us to Italy in our travel bag because it was half filled and who throws away half filled containers of toothpaste? We finished it about 10 days ago, and as I’ve mentioned, it now sits empty.

It was a year ago that my mom was in the active process of dying from Alzheimer’s disease. She had less than a month to live and was in the advanced, vegetative state that occurs as the brain too slowly and too rapidly is dying. Like a slow leak out of a balloon or tire, the effects are apparent but not quickly noted in real time. She could no longer care for herself in any realm; she sat either in a large, special wheel chair or would lie in bed sleeping. When she was awake, she would look around sometimes with a puzzled look, at others with a smile that gave me courage, strength and loving thanks.

The thing about brushing ones teeth is that it takes a lot of complex movements. We first have to realize that it’s important; we have to be able to open our mouth, move the brush around and then spit out the toothpaste and finally, finish with a good water filled rinse. A couple of years before mom died, she quit being able to brush her own teeth and so began our nightly ritual of me helping her to brush her teeth. Her bathroom had a rather large mirror in front of the sink. We always began with making faces at one another in the mirror followed by mom making various “stunning” poses. ALWAYS, we broke into laughter that was truly heart- felt and filled with the special gift of knowing that time is limited but aren’t we having fun now!

We did pretty well with the brushing; either she would sort of do it and I would help guide her hand or I would just do it and guide the brush. It always got tricky when it came to getting her to spit out because of all places for her brain to shut down, the spitting, swallowing on command ability was an early casualty. While this was at times very frustrating for me, it was also quite funny because the spitting out usually took no less than 5 minutes and involved all kinds of pantomiming, spitting myself and me occasionally trying to gently pry her mouth open while she just clenched down even harder. When I’d say, “come on mom, time to spit”, she’d respond with swishing and gargling motions while smiling with her eyes brightly saying, “aren’t I doing good”? After awhile, she would finally and eventually find a way to release the toothpaste and our bedtime ritual would move onto other realms.
The swallowing difficulties also made taking pills a challenge. In time, the staff at her facility taught me that grinding them up and putting them in ice cream or yoghurt works pretty well. This, of course, meant that without access to ice cream, other forces would have to be called upon.

One such time was when Kim and I took mom on an overnight road trip to the Columbia Gorge in southern Washington. Mom loved to go for drives and was an appreciative traveling companion. It was while we were driving that Kim realized that we had forgotten to give mom her medications at lunch. So, while I was driving, Kim decided to try and give “Mamacita” (as Kim called her) her medication from the front seat, leaning awkwardly over to the back seat where mom sat happily staring out the window. What transpired was one of those moments that will always remain in my heart and will always cause me to laugh. Mom couldn’t open her mouth “on demand” and she just kept smiling and nodding at Kim in a friendly way once she noticed Kim looking at her expectantly. As I drove the miles, Kim kept saying, “Come on Mamacita, open your mouth; just a little pill for you… here, I have your water too”. This went on for quite a while with all of us laughing because that was the best response to the situation given that she just couldn’t make the connections fire. Every request to open her mouth was met with a big close-lipped smile. She was laughing at us laughing at how ridiculous the situation was. All of a sudden, I don’t know why, but I said loudly, “The body of Christ” and before Kim knew it, mom stuck out her tongue, Kim placed the pill on it, and mom took it in followed by a swig of water. Kim and I just looked at each other amazed. For those of you who may not follow this, this is how communion in the Catholic Church is taken and for mom, a lifetime Catholic, the long term memory remained intact, her brain understood and the tongue reflex appeared. Over the next few years, we called upon this ability until the day came when the air out of this reflex was also gone.

More memories...

When I was a child, Mom would often call me in from outdoors to show me what she was cooking—say rice. She’d say: “Rachel, I want you to know how to make rice”. I’d moan and groan, “But mom, you’ve shown me a hundred times…” She’d respond with, “Here’s 101”. My father used to joke and tell us that when he married mom she didn’t know how to boil water. In retrospect I have learned how driven she was toward self improvement and so much of what she did was self taught, an internal drive but also out of necessity to manage a large household. Over the years she became an excellent cook, a baker extraordinaire, a seamstress (zippers, button holes and all!), a pianist, a quilter, a Toastmaster, an administrative assistant, a student of many community classes, and more. (Whenever I hear the newest “fact” about possible Alzheimer’s links, such as exercising the body and the brain, I shake my head. Mom exercised regularly, used her brain to study, played music, and kept very active and social).

It’s well known that I love to cook and Kim and I often had Mamacita over for dinner at our house. Mom loved coming and our ritual was having her sit and watch Oprah followed by the news and a glass of wine. I would be cooking and eventually, she’d come into the kitchen to watch. On more than one occasion, she would ask, M: “how did you learn how to cook all of this”? R: “Why mom, you taught me”. M: “Wow, I did? Are you sure”? It always amazed me at what over time she lost and forgot. One other quite special moment was after the visit of her first granddaughter Monique. Monique brought Mom’s great -granddaughter, Sydney, for a visit. After their departure, my mother in all sincerity, began to question me about just how did that baby come about? Where did she come from? How did it get inside of Monique? I swallowed hard and told her—this from a woman who’d had seven of her own children.

We lived in a small town of less than 10,000 people. She’d drive to various places to pay bills, pull up and make me go inside, interact by giving them the check AND, getting a receipt. I hated to do this because I was shy. Mom saw this, I guess, and made me go in telling me that this was a skill that I needed to have and learn. No amount of moaning saved me. Years later, as she grew backward in time to a total state of innocence, I took over all aspects of her life, financial and otherwise.

My mother was an amazing seamstress and as children, she sewed many of our clothes. She took great pride in this fact, as well she should have. I remember watching her on her knees, putting patterns on the floor and cutting out the materials. She used to torture me by making me go to material stores with her and we stayed hundreds and hundreds of hours at a time. During those episodes, her hearing failed her and she was like one of those cartoons where the woman forgets that she has children. She herself was always a fashion statement; over the years I’d joke and tell her that I missed out on that gene. When she came to Seattle and could no longer shop for herself, or worse yet, care about what she wore, it became incredibly important to me to shop for her and make sure her standards continued to be met. It took over two years before I slowly began allowing staff to do some of her laundry and longer yet for me to write her name or room number on a tag or inconspicuous location. I hated that symbolism, that loss of identity that makes one become a room number.

There are so many memories that I have of my mother and our life together—from my earliest years until the day that I held her as she took her final breath. I’ve only slightly touched upon but a few memories and arenas where she greatly influenced me. As Kim and I walk our Italian journey, she often comes to mind and I silently speak and laugh with her. When I go into these great Italian cathedrals I often light a candle in her memory; never thinking “may she rest in peace” but “here is but a spark to symbolize the life and influence you had”. After she died I heard from a number of people who recounted their own stories and described how she impacted them. She lived the life of one who, upon completion, left many memories and great love behind.

No short writing could do any justice or provide a tribute to her life and her years and how important she was to me, my sisters, her siblings, and many others. A year ago, Kim and I were getting ready to have her last birthday party. My sisters had flown in from New Mexico and Texas and close friends, Lynn, Susan and Jill attended. We had reserved a private dining room at my mom’s facility. I catered and we toasted and laughed and called her siblings as we noisily shut down the facility. Mom sat looking wise and smiling; she understood our bantering and laughter as she also imbibed in a bit of champagne, cake and love. After all, she and her clan had written the book on how to party as a family.

This writing has been a work in progress over several sittings. As I finish, today is July 31 and it is her birthday; she would have been 88. Yes, I will think of her today as I do every day and yes, I will go light a candle. I know about the tendency for us, the living to tend to idealize someone once they have left us; I watched my mother do it for a year or so after my dad died. But why not; what’s the harm in putting aside the old wounds and honoring their journey on this planet a bit?

So, to finish for now:

Mom, Mama, Ma, Mamacita, Ofie, Ofelia Maria Murillo Diaz, was born in 1920 in Houston, Texas. She was the eldest living child of 12 children and during my growing up years, much time was spent in Galveston Texas with her parents and siblings, whom she dearly loved. As a child she loved to dance and……