The Last Book I Read with My Mother
My mother, who had dementia for several years, took a sharp downturn at the beginning of last summer, and she passed away at the end of August. During the last couple of weeks of her life, I spent much of my time in her room with her. Mama’s health had deteriorated to the point that she could not easily talk, so I read to her. The piece below is one that I wrote for Mama’s memorial service about the last book we read together. Mama loved stories, spoken and written–fairy tales, folk tales, picture books, novels, mysteries, memoirs, nonfiction, plays–she loved them all. Stories connect people, and I’m sure that’s one of the things that she loved about them, for she was always bringing people together. She started with her siblings and neighbors, orchestrating performances to be shared with family and friends in a detached garage on Beverly Place and, later, in the basement on Twin Pines Drive. Our house was always a hub of activity for family gatherings, dinners with friends, the Book Brunch, summer swims, and drop-in guests who called when they passed through town. Everyone was always welcome. Even now, she’s bringing people together. And where there are people, there are stories. Mama had so many gifts–intellect, wit, energy galore, kindness, compassion, creativity, and tenacity. And she did not squander them. She loved to say, “Do something, even if it’s wrong.” There was nothing reserved about my mama. She gave her full energy, heart, body, mind, and spirit to everything that she did. She didn’t save anything back for herself. If Mama promised you something, she was going to “come across,” something her grandsons learned early and loved about her. You didn’t have to guess what she thought about things or guess how she felt. She would tell you. And did I mention fun? Mama was so much fun! One of the best times to see her playful spirit in action was at Halloween, her favorite holiday. She loved it all–costumes, themed snacks, ghost stories, spooky decorations and, our family favorite, her famous jack-o-lantern cookies. She even started a new holiday, “Spider Appreciation Day,” because she felt that spiders got a bad rap. Mama was always learning–trying new recipes, collecting academic credentials, traveling to places she’d never visited, and learning new hobbies. She loved to stay at her cabin in Blairsville with friends and family and take classes at the John Campbell Folk school, studying topics ranging from cooking to kaleidoscope making. There was nothing half-hearted in her efforts. Ever. The cruel thing about dementia is that it clouds words, memories, and stories. When I would visit and conversation became cumbersome, we read stories. Mama could no longer focus on longer stories, so we returned to her first love, children’s literature. She read to me, and I would read to her, “just like we used to do,” she said. We read old favorites and things lying around in the memory care unit. During Mama’s last weeks, I decided to read Heidi to her. Mama had told me that it was one of her early favorites. I was curious about why that particular story captivated her so, and it wasn’t long before I found out: Heidi had trouble learning to read. The tutor had given up on her, and she had given up on herself, but that all changed when her companion, Clara’s, grandmother, Mrs. Sesemann came to visit. Heidi told Mrs. Sesemann that it was too difficult to learn to read, that her friend, Peter, had told her so. Mrs. Sesemann said, “Now listen to me, Heidi, you’ve never learnt to read because you believed what Peter told you. Now you must believe what I say, that in a little while you will be able to read quite well, as most children do, being on the whole like you and not like Peter.” I, of course, saw Mama in Mrs. Sesemann. Mama believed in possibilities, in magic, even, and she made other people believe, too, most importantly in themselves. As we read on, Heidi’s learning to read extended well beyond herself. She read to her Uncle Alp. She read hymns to Peter’s Grannie, who couldn’t see to read, and she taught Peter to read. His mother said, “Now Peter has learnt to read, there’s no knowing what he may do.” This, Mama believed about everyone. Stories give us wisdom, insight, and hope. It’s easy to see why Mama loved them and how, through the ever-widening circles that she created, the possibilities can extend forever. I’d like to close by reading a hymn that Heidi read to Grannie. “The golden sun His course doth run, And spreads his light, So warm and bright, Upon us all. We see God’s power From hour to hour. His love is sure, And will endure For evermore. Sorrow and grief Are only brief True joy we’ll find And peace of mind In God’s good time.” I can tell you, after nearly a year, that you can find joy and peace during immeasurably sad times. Communication transcends the ability to speak, and love can be shared in a multitude of ways. When you are unable to find or speak words of your own, you can read someone else’s words and allow them to comfort you. Mama’s mind would not allow her to say all that she would have liked, and my immense grief kept me from speaking from my own heart at any length. I’m grateful that I could borrow Heidi’s words and heart when I needed them most.
