Category Archives: Ladies Who Lunch

Mom: Doing what we love to do together

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My Mom, Betty Evans, was a painter before macular degen­er­a­tion and alzheimers’ robbed her of her sight and her ability to trans­late her visions onto canvas. I miss her painting. Some­times I find her moving her hand purpose­fully through the air, imag­i­nary paint­brush in her hand. What, I wonder, is she painting? It would be amazing to know.

Most days what we do is eat together. Today, we’ll do that too. This will be a big day over at the home. It’s one of two or three days a year when everyone floods in to see their moms. Aller­gans run high as everyone totes in flowers.

My family never did a lot about holi­days. Most went by fairly unre­marked. There were presents at Christmas, but a fairly modest amount. Cards for birth­days, and that pretty much took care of it. And so today, I’ll be known as the daughter who doesn’t show up with flowers.

But I’ll show up. Twice. Once to feed her lunch and once to feed her dinner. Or is it dinner and supper? I still can’t remember. And she and I will smile and giggle. I’m incred­ibly lucky. Over at my house, every day is mother’s day. And I’d better take advan­tage. Because pretty soon in the not-​​to-​​distant future, no day will be.

So do some­thing today with your mom(s). Lots of women have moth­ered you through the years. Remember them and do some­thing fun with them. And don’t rule out doing some­thing fun with them at some other point. That’s all they want. Flowers are nice. Time? It’s price­less and limited.

Ladies Who Lunch: My Mom

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My mom Betty lives in a nursing home. She has dementia and at the age of 87 doesn’t have lots of conver­sa­tion left — most of the time! Some­times there are incred­ible break­throughs and they usually arrive from left field. Her husband of almost 65 years died at the end of March. He had a great death but she misses him. She doesn’t talk about it a lot, but often she’s sad. As she said to me last week: “This is a horribly soli­tary life.” …Pause… “but I can bear it.”

It’s hard losing your mom like this. But if she can bear the lone­li­ness, I can bear the loss. In the mean­time we have a sweet and wonderful rela­tion­ship. I some­times feel it’s like having a child — in reverse. She certainly cuddles into my arms and takes love and nour­ish­ment confi­dently from me. But she’s disap­pearing not indi­vid­u­ating. Thank­fully the love isn’t going away. I don’t think it ever will. Before Daddy died, it was what he was most concerned about… that I would love and care for her. So, I do. For him and for me. Because I’m lucky enough to have been a well loved child. Loving back is my sweet reward!

Betty was a wonderful artist. From time to time you’ll see some of her artwork in the blog. She raised three chil­dren 2 daugh­ters and a son in small town Penn­syl­vania. She was and she remains very social. She adored her Sammy, my digni­fied thoughtful daddy, Sam.

I am with Mommy almost every day, usually at a meal. She eats much better if I am there. As she eats, I am coming to know the other ladies (and the few men) who eat on the early shift. I want to tell you a bit about these wonderful women and the men, their quirks and person­al­i­ties, the food and their fami­lies, and the care­takers who love and tend them.

I want you to get to know her compa­triots and find out that life isn’t without its rich­ness, even in places like this. Forget the horror stories, although there are certainly places that aren’t perfect. This is where your parents are being cared for. The more you know, the more you expect, the better care they’ll get.