After 13 years of living together with my daughter in a big old house in NE Portland, with my two grandchildren, it’s time for us to part ways. The children are grown and my daughter is seeking her freedom.
If it were plausible and possible, I would stay here for the rest of my life. But now that I’m 77 years old, it’s time for me to have found cheaper digs and fewer stairs.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m full of trepidation about my physical well – being. I survived polio at 5 years old that left me with a weak right arm, the deltoid not having survived the paralysis. I also survived a terrible bout with cancer and 8 months of chemo when I was 56 years old. One does not escape cancer or chemo unscathed.
I’ve had a very eventful and adventurous life. I went full bore into it. Because of this, my body, my soul, my head and my heart are full of memories. I realize now that there are fewer years ahead of me than are behind me and I fully enjoy reminiscing and writing about my life.
I have said this before and I’ll say it again. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living. Age is taking its toll on me with crackling joints and weakening muscles, a slower and less elegant gait and increasing girth.
I understand fully our vulnerability. We are assailed on all sides by decline and a world made very scary by other humans, natural disasters and accidents and by other living things and the intervention of technology. But I have lived bravely and brightly.
So because of my age, I admit to some fear about moving on my own into unfamiliar territory and at this age, when I am not in my prime… not even close to it. And we are living in uncertain times. Let’s not get into politics, except to say:
I would be foolish to not wonder if this country will continue to support me with MY Social Security and MY retirement fund, which I have earned and are not a hand out from the government.
What began this story was when a friend asked if I were worried about my daughter going basically on her own without children and without me. I responded with a resounding, NO! and here’s why:
At her age, I had been divorced. Had started going to university. Spent a year in Mexico, including a semester at the University of Queretero and traveled throughout Mexico with the curator of the Museum of Art of the same cty.
Upon returning I had an amazing 3 year affair with a beautiful Cuban. Moved to Tallahassee on a fellowship, traveled cross country on a train. I found shortly after one semester that the deep south was not for me.
So I moved to Santa Monica to attend UCLA on another fellowship. By that time, I had finished 11 years of university at 5 different schools. I moved back to Portland and started a beautiful career at OHSU as their first and only professional archivist, retiring after 16 years.
When I moved back to Portland, I moved my mother in with me. Fell for an Indian Sikh. Had cancer and survived surgery, and 8 months of chemo. My mother and I lived together 8 years when she passed away. She stayed at home with me until the day she passed.
Since moving back to Portland, I had moved 4 times by the time I moved in here with my daughter. And now, here I am, moving again, not totally by choice.
So do I have any worries concerning my daughter?
She is made up of the same stuff as I am and maybe more. It’s her story so without giving any detail, I will just say, she got her massage therapy license while she raised two children alone and finished her BS degree. She’s now Spa Drector where she has worked as lead therapist for 14 years. She supports herself. She’s physically healthy and strong.
Nope, I’m not worried about her at all, any more than any mother would. For sure this is more about me than about her. But when my friend asked, if I was worried about this time of change, it caused me to reflect on life. Actually, I look forward to hearing about her adventures from here on out, about her brave and bright life.
I can’t believe I’m able to do this. I can’t believe that day after day, I can put one foot in front of the other and put one thing in a box, and one thing in a bag, and end the day, still putting things in bags and boxes.
Useless, precious, beautiful objects of my affection. Proof of my existence. And one day no one will care for them nor remember me.
This hard work and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing or where I’m going. And even less whatI I’m supposed to be doing or where I should be going. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep doing.
This is how I’ve lived my life. When a door opens, I just go in. Not putting much thought into it. And here I am getting closer and closer to the end of my life and still living the same way. But more aware than ever of futility.
And now worry stalks me like a dangerous and silent cat in the wild would. I am it’s prey and it, my predator.
I think it’s always been with me. I used to not notice it. But these days, I’m made aware of it by weakness creeping in, by my slowing gait, by increasing frailty.
I’m aware of its footsteps falling almost imperceptible except for a rare snap of a twig, or a small tumble of a stone. but still closely behind. I’m beginning to hear it’s heavy breathing when I hush. I hear its snuffling at my foot prints left in the soft soil I call my life.
It is there in the night with only the stars and the moon as my companions… no protection at all but, I remind myself, I still can call up fire. But it never rests and so neither can I. I can sometimes see its eyes glowing in the flickering flames.
During the daylight hours, I am distracted mostly, but these days, not like in the past. What will I do when I can no longer move forward, when I must lay down, when rest is needed more than life itself?
Then I will lie down. Then worry and wonder and unknowing will no longer stalk me. Then I will rest. Then, I will no longer need the strength that now I do.
So now, before I lay me down, I will put some more things in bags and I will put some more things in boxes.
Good night, big and beautiful and wild cat. I hear you breathing softly.
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
Unless you’re physically and mentally in good health, it is my opinion that one should, as well as might be accomplished, pass on gratefully and peacefully.
When I say, ” in good health”, both physically and mentally, I am aware that good health is relative to each individual. I intimately know what it means to me. I have been nigh unto death twice in my life.
As for me, I do not want to live disabled, physically confined to a wheelchair nor in a bed nor in a nursing home staring at the walls. Nor would I want to live with dementia. My grandmother had dementia, and it was torturous, more so for her, but also for those of us who loved her dearly.
As my mom used to say when she was dying on hospice, I do not want my heart to keep on beating when my mind ceases to function. I am in complete agreement with that sentiment.
Many members of my family have lived very long lives, some even passed one hundred years. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to follow in their footsteps. I no longer have that wish.
Now that I’m nearing 80, I know what pain is. I know what it is have your organs begin to fail. I know what it is to feel myself getting weaker, though I work on my physical body constantly.
I know what it is to be disrespected by those that are younger. I know what it is to be disregarded, though I am educated and my intellect is still intact. I make an effort to learn new things every day.
But in spite of all of that, I love my life. I enjoy my memories. I love each season in turn. I have had an adventurous life. I have been loved good and bad. As I like to say, “I have been ridden hard and put away wet”. And I have no regrets. I can say with a keen certainty that I fear life more than death.
For now, I will live my life just as I wish… anyway, as well as my diminutive finances will let me. I am satisfied with what I have. But I don’t wish to live without my health and an ability to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.
When I was younger, and my life was full of new experiences, I often said, “Leave when you have to; stay as long as you can”. I realize now that wasn’t always the best advice. But it sure made for an interesting life.
I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.
I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.
I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.
I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.
I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.
I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.
I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.
I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.
I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.
But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.
I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.
I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.
My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.
There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.
My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.
He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.
He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.
He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.
But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.
Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.
And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.
Mom and I had moved 3 times between the years 2002 and 2010.
Our first move was moving her out of senior housing into a house with me. She was 81 and in good health but not eating as well as she should (too many Hungryman dinners) and it was getting harder for her to clean the floors.
I had just returned from Santa Monica, California to take up a permanent position. It was perfect timing for Mom to live with me. However, this wasn’t the first time, as she had lived with me, my husband and children for a decade already.
But changes in our lives had necessitated Mom moving into senior housing for a time. Jack and I moved into a tiny duplex on our own while our children transitioned out of the house.
As soon as I moved from California back to Oregon, I moved Mom in with me. In the first house that we moved into, we had abundant gardens, which we took full advantage of. We spent every day that wasn’t stormy or too cold, out in the yard. Mom had been skillfully using a walker for a few years at this point, and managed quite easily.
However, there were steps going up to the path to the front steps of the porch. There were steps going down from the back door into the back garden. There were steps going down into the basement. Mom loved to do the laundry and so it was necessary for her to descend those dark stairs. I soon decided that I would take over the laundry chores. I couldn’t though deny Mom the privilege of going in and out of the house at will, though it was a constant worry.
It was in this house that Mom saw me through surgery and eight months of chemotherapy. She took over all of the household chores and my care. I was supposed to die but I didn’t. We lived on together.
Five years later we moved into a beautiful little 3 bedroom ranch and again, with large gardens and beautiful plantings front and back. Thankfully, this had absolutely no stairs for her to climb or descend. But, in two years it was necessary for us to move once again.
Fortunately, I found a house with an identical lay out without stairs so that Mom could spend her time out in the yard tending to the plants and just enjoying the outdoors. We had a large outdoor patio where I hung fushias and begonias from the rafters and filled the space with hostas and ferns. I bought a large Asian pot and filled it with water and goldfish and lotus.
We were happy in this house and I hoped we wouldn’t have to move again. Mom was quite near her church and the bus came directly to our door to pick her up to take her anywhere she wanted to go. We lived in the neighborhood where she had raised us. We were home.
One day, shortly after we moved in, a beautiful and talkative mixed breed cat that looked much like a siamese, came strolling up the street and walked straight into the house, just as though she’d been there before. I think she had found home.
She found it comfortable, sleeping on the corner of Mom’s bed in Mom’s bedroom or sitting at her feet or walking back and forth so that Mom could pet her and gently pull her tail. Mom would give her food and water and they would spend the day together as I worked. I knew they were close but at that time I didn’t realize just how close they had become.
The cat we called Mama, as I did for many of the cats that I had in my life. If Mom were gone and it was just me at home, Mama didn’t pay much attention to me except to lay close if I were sitting on the couch or in a chair. She might follow me outside to sit on the patio furniture if I happened to sit for a while.
I could tell that the cat was only trying to figure out where Mom had gone. One day, Mom went to the hospital where she stayed for two weeks. When she came home, it was to wait for the inevitable.
We situated the hospital bed in front of the large window where Mom could see the goings on in the neighborhood. She, and her constant companion, watched for the mailman, the newspaper delivery, and the many visitors who came with cookies, cakes and kisses.
Mama sat with Mom day in and day out and reluctantly jumped off the bed only when we changed the bedding. Then came the day when Mom cut the cord that tied her to this world. Family and friends came to say their last goodbyes. I didn’t notice if Mama was around or hiding safely but out of sight.
When everyone was gone, my sister, my daughter and I (and Mama) were the only ones in the house with Mom as she took her last breath. Mama sat quietly on the hospital bed, against the window beside the front door, as Mom’s body was carried out into the wee hours of the night.
Just two days after Mom’s passing, the hospital bed had been removed by the hospice folks. Later in the day, I saw Mama in Mom’s bedroom, laying on the end of her bed. I hadn’t been paying much attention to her as I had much to attend to. I laid my hand on her soft body expecting a reaction but she was cold and stiff. Mama had died.
I think Mama had come to accompany Mom on her journey out of this world. Now her work was over and it was time for her to rest, as well. You were never my cat, Mama, but I loved you, too. Thank you for walking with Mom as she passed on. We won’t ever forget you for accompaning life and then death.
eyeamdust 