Ten years from now, when I’ve lost some — all? — of my marbles, will I still be loveable?
I’m getting older and older, and soon I will be getting crankier and crankier. My mother was pretty ornery toward the end of her life. How about me? Is it written in my DNA that I too will fade into dementia one day?
If so, will I still be loveable when I’ve lost the last of my marbles? Will I even be me?
I watched my mother — her mind — slip away bit by bit as she approached her nineties. She died at 93, and toward the end, her thoughts would chase absurdities like, “Who was my first husband?”
My mother, my real mother, would never ask such a question. From the time she was sixteen years old, my mother had one true love — my father. The two married just as she was turning 21 and they remained married till the day he died, in her arms. She wanted me to know that — that he died in her arms. He was hers to the end.
But now I had to wonder. Who was this woman? Who was this frail, wrinkled, cantankerous person crumpled up in a chair that, years ago, she had so optimistically reupholstered and needlepointed with soft green leaves and pink roses, a chair that had accompanied her here, to this tiny, shared space in a memory care facility? Was this person still my mother? Or was she someone, something else?
On some days, when I showed up for a visit, my mother would look up from what she was doing and smile at me in recognition and delight. Once — it was October — I caught her laughing and kissing the Halloween pumpkin she was busily carving at a table alongside a half dozen other folks also finishing out their lives carving pumpkins in this place.
At other times, when I showed up for a visit, my mother was vague. Large chunks of her life were no longer available to her. They were gone.
Does that mean my mother was gone? That we are nothing more than the neurons and synapses that make up our brain, and when that brain is gone, so are we? Is there anything left of us to be loved? Do we have souls?
Will I Still Be Loveable When I’ve Lost All My Marbles?
On holidays, my friend Nancy invites me along when she visits her husband Steve at the memory care unit where he’s lived for several years now. Steve was Jon’s dear friend from childhood. And he’s been my dear friend for decades.
We sit at a table in the dining room, the three of us, Nancy and I on either side of Steve. It’s the Fourth of July and Steve’s birthday. Red white and blue beads and bracelets are sprinkled across the table. Barbecue awaits at the buffet. Attendants come and go, checking on Steve, who, yes, can be cantankerous at times.
On this day, I can’t tell whether Steve knows that it’s a holiday and his birthday or whether he even knows me.
A couple of years ago, when I visited him here, he could still manage a few words. As I got ready to leave, I said, “I’ll be back, Steve. I’ll visit you again.”
“Visits are key,” he said.
That’s what he said to me, and I remember it. And so, every few months, when I get an invitation from Nancy for a holiday visit, I say yes. I show up.
And I’m here again for this Fourth of July brunch, for the barbecue, the pie, for Nancy and for Steve’s birthday. When I arrive I press my hand softly against my friend’s forearm and say, “Hi, Steve. It’s me. Your friend. Barbara.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. Does he recognize me today? I don’t know. But I know who he is. When I look at him — the tilt of his head, the characteristic squint of the eye — I see Steve. Steve is still here. And I still love him. I notice that.
On Thursday, after I finished writing this post I went to the gym. While I was there, Nancy phoned me to say that Steve had died that morning. He was 85, the same age Jon would be today.
I’m very sure you will be lovable no matter what or when . . . I enjoy reading your thoughts and I feel the same way. I love living in California and have since 1963, but I still love Michigan as my home state. I read the Detroit Free Press. Follow the Tigers, Lions, Pistons and Red Wings — and Michigan football. I follow the politics with interest. I haven’t been back in many years. Wish I could travel across the new Gordie Howe Bridge.
Ann, it’s wonderful to hear from you! I too would love to travel across the Gordie Howe bridge. Do you remember going across the Ambassador bridge and being asked before you could cross to name the place you were born? My parents coached all us kids on the various cities of our birth so that — as school-age kids — we could answer with confidence and allow our family car to proceed. That’s all it took in those days to go from the US to Canada. Lots of mutual trust was involved. That’s what I see is missing in the US and around the world today — trust . . . As for the Tigers and Lions, I married a Californian and morphed into a Giants and Niners fan.
Yes!
Peter. You are so sweet. And young enough to be there when I hit three digits.
A grateful heart makes all the difference. Just always be grateful and you will be lovable and people won’t care. If you are forgetful.
Sharie. I find myself thanking people all the time. The bagger at the check-out counter. The attendant at the gym who puts ice in my water bottle for me. Maybe it’s an age thing, when you don’t take anything for granted any more, not even a scoop of ice.
Barbara, Our families were friends when we were kids growing up in the Detroit area. Your dad and mine both worked for Sealtest. My dad, Leon Hoyt and your dad were fraternity brothers at Michigan State. I have really enjoyed reading your stories about those early days back in Michigan especially at Bass Lake. Your stories about your parents piqued my interest as well. Also, I see that you have a book, “Wrestling with God.” I’ll check it out. Keep up the good work.
Judy, Thanks so much for bring back memories of Pic and Leon Hoyt. I remember both of them well, though, since I was a kid, I never saw Pic’s — Pick’s? — name written down, so I don’t know how it was spelled! I can see both of their faces so vividly.
Barbara, Pic was a nickname my dad gave her. She disliked her given name.
I loved the pictures of your parents when they were young. Tinka was a real cutie. I would have recognized your dad anywhere. I never realized your family connection to the camp on Bass Lake. I just recall us being there with you and your brothers, Dave and Jim, as well as me along with my brothers Dave and Ron.
I moved to southern California a number of years ago and love it. However I still think of Michigan as my home.
Keep writing those stories. They are a look back at your life, both funny and serious. They make me smile. You have great perspective.
Yes! I do love California. But Michigan is still home. I made a trip there this summer to show my grandchildren Bass Lake and the places I grew up. It even smells different!
exceptional column, poignant and deeply affecting
Thank you, Ginger. More TK.
The cantankerousness can start well before the forgetting. So often there is a personality change happening. I’ve never noticed any cantankerousness in you so you should be easy to love until your last minute.
Oh, Jeanie. That’s so sweet of you to say. Especially since you actually have seen me cranky. You and I spent day after day together during the summers at Bass Lake as kids. I remember one summer we had spent so much time together that we were finally getting on each other’s nerves. Our mothers consulted with each other and recommended that we spend a little time away from each other. Which we did. But not for long!