My Mom and Your Mom: Sunday Conversations
There comes a time when our parents get older and they need our care. The roles are reversed and we find ourselves making decisions one at a time. In my case this happened over quite some time. I am out in California and my two brothers Rick and Jim and my sister Carol are all in the Milwaukee area. Every Sunday for many years I've talked to my Mom on the phone for about an hour. I am writing some stories about our family journey with Mom. Maybe this will prompt you to remember or think of some stories of your own about your family or a parent who is getting older.
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For many years, my brothers Rick and Jim and my sister Carol have been going to our Mom's to help her and to be her companions. Since my Dad died in 1988, Rick and Jim have alternated Saturdays faithfully. Every Saturday they would go there and have lunch with her and do chores around the house, mowing the lawn in the summer, raking the leaves in the fall and shoveling the snow in the wintertime. After she gave up her car, their time commitment on Saturday increased because then they would drive her to her local Pick 'N Save to shop with her too. Mom is a slow shopper, walking down all the aisles to see what she might need. And then they needed to go to the library with her in case she wanted more books for the week, and then if she needed bloodwork for the month, they took her over to take care of that. Meanwhile, Carol was coming either on Sunday or another day of the week whenever she could and taking Mom to the eye doctor or the hearing doctor or another doctor, go to the library, weed the garden or take Mom to the nursery to get new plants and have an outing. I have called Mom every Sunday evening for many years.
Our conversation always starts out something like this, "can you hear me now?" I say. "Wait just a minute," she says, "I'll get my hearing aid." Minutes pass. She returns, "Can you hear me," she says. "Yes, I say, can you hear me now?" "I'll put it in the other ear," she says. "I don't know why it worked last time," she says. "Can you hear me?" she says. "Yes," I say, "Can you hear me?" Finally, "Yes, I can hear you," she says. But she never hears me very well and I have to shout at her mostly. But she catches some words. "How's your garden," I say. "It's fine," she says, "Carol came and did some weeding and she did such a good job, it looks so nice. And Rick did such a good job on the hedge yesterday. There's new buds on that climbing plant by the garage, I don't remember the name of it," she says. "It's a clematis," I tell her. "Oh yes," she says, "it blooms purple." She talks to me for an hour and I listen to her. I ask her questions, like "Did Rick comet his week or Jim? What did you do?" and "What did you have for supper?" "Oh I had some soup that Carol made, she's a good cook."
Remembering our conversations while Mom was living at the home where she grew up, my Grandma's house, I pictured her in the kitchen there looking out the kitchen window at the garden where the clematis that Carol planted grows up the trellis every summer.
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For many years, my brothers Rick and Jim and my sister Carol have been going to our Mom's to help her and to be her companions. Since my Dad died in 1988, Rick and Jim have alternated Saturdays faithfully. Every Saturday they would go there and have lunch with her and do chores around the house, mowing the lawn in the summer, raking the leaves in the fall and shoveling the snow in the wintertime. After she gave up her car, their time commitment on Saturday increased because then they would drive her to her local Pick 'N Save to shop with her too. Mom is a slow shopper, walking down all the aisles to see what she might need. And then they needed to go to the library with her in case she wanted more books for the week, and then if she needed bloodwork for the month, they took her over to take care of that. Meanwhile, Carol was coming either on Sunday or another day of the week whenever she could and taking Mom to the eye doctor or the hearing doctor or another doctor, go to the library, weed the garden or take Mom to the nursery to get new plants and have an outing. I have called Mom every Sunday evening for many years.
Our conversation always starts out something like this, "can you hear me now?" I say. "Wait just a minute," she says, "I'll get my hearing aid." Minutes pass. She returns, "Can you hear me," she says. "Yes, I say, can you hear me now?" "I'll put it in the other ear," she says. "I don't know why it worked last time," she says. "Can you hear me?" she says. "Yes," I say, "Can you hear me?" Finally, "Yes, I can hear you," she says. But she never hears me very well and I have to shout at her mostly. But she catches some words. "How's your garden," I say. "It's fine," she says, "Carol came and did some weeding and she did such a good job, it looks so nice. And Rick did such a good job on the hedge yesterday. There's new buds on that climbing plant by the garage, I don't remember the name of it," she says. "It's a clematis," I tell her. "Oh yes," she says, "it blooms purple." She talks to me for an hour and I listen to her. I ask her questions, like "Did Rick comet his week or Jim? What did you do?" and "What did you have for supper?" "Oh I had some soup that Carol made, she's a good cook."
Remembering our conversations while Mom was living at the home where she grew up, my Grandma's house, I pictured her in the kitchen there looking out the kitchen window at the garden where the clematis that Carol planted grows up the trellis every summer.
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