
I've been away on a visit. My crazy mother has a nickname I gave her: Madre.
She's a raconteur, a Spiritualist, a lover of nature. The persn I stole the guitar from when I was ten.
Madre is a visionary, a rabble-rouser, a symbolist, a painter, a poet, a lover of Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez and Judy Collins, not to mention Barbra Streisand.
Madre has survived two hip replacements.
When she was in a theater, at intermission, a heavyset guy in an electric wheelchair plowed into her, and her head hit the parquet floor. Blood everywhere. She had issues with her eyes after that, and her balance, her hearing, maybe even her comprehension. The concussion seemed to make her feistier and more stubborn.
She railed against development in the small town of Port Washington, Wisconsin, where she had ended up. She grieved the loss of Harry's Restaurant, and donated the painting of the iconic place to the local historical society.
Another hospital episode left Madre with a colostomy bag, and intestinal pathways removed.
She would need to learn to change the bag, to live with the equipment, and the discomfort.
But Madre carried on.
She sold her house there and ended up in a two-bedroom apartment in Milwaukee that was part of a senior living complex. She needed that extra bedroom for all of the storytellers and sob-songsters that had been part of her life. There needed always to be an extra place or two at the table. Even if visitors were infrequent.
And then COVID happened. Bad timing. Suddenly, there were no guests at all. There were books to read, poems out loud. There were the old spiritual and freedom songs to be sung over and over again. There was no going to church.
Some might say Madre never emerged from the dirty Covid cocoon. She took to not leaving her apartment, had a boyfriend, and tended to fall asleep in her armchair. She became easily overwhelmed and couldn't keep on top of the bills. She fell often, and had spent a couple of nights on the floor, before being discovered.
She ended up in hospital. What was wrong? Who was she at this point? A survivor who had cared for her elderly husband until he died in hospice. Then an environmentalist and activist who survived hip replacements, concussion and a colostomy bag? Now, a person who could not ambulate as she had.
So unwell, Madre was moved by family to a nursing wing of the retirement community. She woke not understanding where she was, and immediately refused to believe she had now lost her apartment, her things having been divvied up or stored.
Finally, she was moved to a large room with a view of sunsets, on the 5th floor.
Stubborn, she refused to hang her art on the walls. She felt vulnerable but used the option to refuse as a source of power. No, she would not leave this room. No, she would not eat that lunch. No, she would not go their "Activities." No, she was not just "sitting there." She had thoughts, big thoughts. She knows people. She is known. She is NOT who they think she is.
Still, she feels alone. She feels overwhelmed. She feels she has no privacy. People come in and out of her space and do what they are told to do. Her clothes have a room number on the inside collars and seams.
"What is this?" she says, ironically. She doesn't like the way she looks. She doesn't know what she is doing there. Her energy is immense.
On this visit, she listens to my music, and begs me to read the reviews. ."Oh!" she exclaims! "You are doing such good work." She makes comments about all the instruments fitting in with each other so well, yet playing different parts. I say, "Madre, that is production!" She tells me I should be playing large concert halls and encourages me to keep going.
I am only here for the weekend. I take countless pictures of her, and we speak of her friends. We go through her Rolodex and I ask who she wants me to contact. She remembers everyone.
She is spending a fortune in this place, and family worry she will run out of money.
but the caregivers are paid only $17 an hour.
There is nothing to do up here.
She watches the cable telly and goes crazy with impatience and irritation. She is very political and very upset with this country. Very sad.
I pray that someone will come and do PT with her in her room, even though she refuses. Someone has to be as clever and wily and charming as she is. I got her to eat a Culver's burger. I got her to pose. I got her to sing. She is fully present.
No one knows what to do with her. She is not demented. She does not belong in memory care.
She needs to be toileted and dressed. It shames her.
She feels pain often. She does not want to go talk to the apartment dwellers she used to know.
They are very gossipy.
We sang a lot of songs. One is "Ain't gonna let nobody turn me around."
And the last night I was there, we watched the sunset. "It is going to get even better, " she said. "Just wait. You'll see."
I wanted to cry, just witnessing how present Madre could be. To wait for the sunset. Something I have little patience for when at home and thinking, damn I have to get dinner started.
When I left Wisconsin at 4am, in the cold, and the dark, I left with more pain and uncertainty than I had come bearing.
For there is so much THERE left in Madre. She is small, perhaps, yet so so large, as large as the sky at dusk or sunrise, too large to fall between the cracks, which can happen here in America.
But please not to this funny crazy earthmother my Madre. Inspire me with my own vision on this, and tell me somehow that more will be revealed.
I guess I must be patient.
I guess it is my turn to have some faith.
Beautiful blog about your beloved Madre. We are lucky to have our wonderful, resilient moms.
This is so beautifully written and I see the love you have for your mother. My mother passed away in 2019, and I do miss her daily!
I read your blog and you're such a good writer! With only the words necessary, you convey everything!!