Last “Bad” Words
by Nils Ling
Image by Somebody–else
On a trip back to my old hometown, I drove out to the senior’s residence to spend some time with my Mom.
I hadn’t seen Mom in almost a year. My sisters, who have been there with her on her gradual descent into the murky fog of Alzheimer’s, warned that the visit would go hard on me. They had been there every day; I would be instantly confronted with changes that had been a year in the making.
A nurse at the home showed me up to her room. “Mary,” said the nurse. “There’s someone to see you.”
Mom turned to me. My heart tore to tatters.
She lay in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. I was shocked at her appearance. Once a woman who was both athletic and empirically beautiful – we’re talking movie star good looks – she was now a grey and gaunt and frail and sunken shell.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “It’s me.” I used the nickname that she had for me since I was a baby (and no, you’re not entitled to know).
I’m not sure what I expected. Some flicker of recognition? There was none. A smile? Nothing. Just a vacant stare.
Suddenly, she began to talk … sort of. She unleashed a pleasant, conversational stream of gibberish: half-formed words, nonsense syllables, sounds of all kinds. But not a single intelligible word in all of it.
I took her hand . It was incredibly soft, as if she’d never done a lick of work in her entire life. She had given birth to six kids in nine years, raised them all on a military salary, sewed all our clothes, made all our meals from vegetables she harvested in a gigantic garden she kept, and once made the local paper when she was named Chatelaine Magazine’s Housewife of the Year. The woman knew work.
Mom never wanted this. I mean, who would? But Mom was particularly adamant. She had often specifically said that if she ever wound up this way, she hoped one of us would be kind enough to cover her face with a pillow and press down.
(For years, it was a family joke: when she’d stumble on a word or forget where she’d put something, my sister would grab a pillow from the couch and begin fluffing it up.
And Mom would turn to her and sweetly say, “(Expletive) off. It’s not time yet.” )
Image by Somebody–else
(Mom was a military wife. Every bad word I know – and a few I would never have the courage to use – I heard first from her. She took inordinate delight in a well-placed expletive.)
Well, God forgive me, I really did look speculatively at her pillow. The only thing stopping me was the thought that sooner or later I might get to Heaven and Mom would greet me with, “Get over here, you little (expletive). Now, what the (expletive) was that all about?”
I began to sing to her, songs from when I was a little boy. When I began singing “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic”, she waved her arms, conducting the imaginary parade. I fetched up in tears in the chorus, unable to go on.
Mom looked at me, then pulled a marvellous caricature of a crying face as if to say, “Don’t be such a baby. Get hold of yourself.” It reminded me of the time she flushed a turtle of mine down the toilet upon its demise. She let me cry for a little while, but when the keening went on too long she snarled, “Oh, for God’s sake, enough. He wasn’t going to grow up to be Prime Minister.”
After about an hour, I could tell Mom was getting tired. I didn’t want to break off the visit. I was still industriously drilling to see if I could get that one tiny glimpse of the strong, funny, woman who kept our family together all those years. But it felt like it was time to leave.
That’s when Mom uttered the last intelligible words I ever heard from her. In the middle of yet another stream of gibberish, she paused, frowned, and said, “Oh, shit!”
Not exactly poetry, I know. But perfect, in its own way. Her situation, summed up in a way that was so much like her.
Image by Somebody–else
I chuckled when she said it, and chuckled again when I told the nurses at the desk about it. “Oh, that’s Mary,” they said.
I wasn’t chuckling in the car on the way back into the city. I was crying. Tears of sorrow, tears of loss … but also tears of gratitude. Her six kids – hell, anyone who knew her – were lucky to have had her as long as we did.
We’ve all read famous last words from brilliant people in history. We want them to be perfect and pithy and to re-define the human experience from the perspective of a wise and noble soul about to shuffle off this mortal coil. They rarely are. Because death itself is so banal and ordinary, why should our last few confused thoughts be anything but?
The fact that those two words were the last words I ever heard from her? Yeah, I’m OK with that.
They shocked me, made me laugh, made me cry. They were a perfect coda to what had been an exquisite symphony of a life.
A good way to go out, you ask me.
–
Written by Nils Ling
Book : Truths And Half Truths
Photo Credits by Catherine of Deviant Art
Posted on May 6, 2012, in Reflections and tagged Alzheimer, Bad, Mother, Son. Bookmark the permalink. 17 Comments.
I love your post…what an amazing Mom you had…I love that her final words were those that would embody so many emotions in you. I agree with you ~ a good way to go out.
Hugs to you.
Brought a tear to my eye. My amazing 98 year old grandfather 4 weeks ago lived alone, cared for himself, followed the stock market, went most days to the beach, read books and watched gangster movies. Had a great relationship with my mum, myself and my 2 sisters, our husbands and his 6 great grandkids. Then he had a stroke, followed by a heart attack. He is in hospital now, cannot take more than a few steps, can’t remember anything that has happened and only knows my mum, myself and my 2 sisters. Can’t feed himself properly, can’t have his guiness every night (he can’t swallow thin liquids now) Can’t even toilet himself. I know the staff there see an old man who they think has been like that for a long time. It is heartbreaking for us all to watch him, knowing that it is just a matter of time before his heart gives out. If he could get his thoughts straight in his head I know he would be saying “Bugger this for a life”
My Dad is in a nursing home in my home town. I ache and hurt inside because of my disabilities and inabilities to be able to go see him. I love him to bits. But he is still trying to remember my name. Saddest day of my life was when he forgot my nickname. I cried and smiled and tried to laugh all at the same time. I know the emotions you were feeling. I am so sorry for you as well. But yeah I hope mine will be “Oh shit” ! LOL She seemed very vivacious! I like that about her. Bracing for when I get that phone call. Not ready for it. As a kid I always thought my folks would live forever. Well I know better than that now. <3. Take care.
Janet,
I worked in nursing homes for many years. I do believe our loved ones have a thinner veil with the angelic realm and they feel some sense of peace and joy regardless of our presence or not. I’m so sad you are going through so much and will pray that you heal. God Bless and may you find peace. Terri
Great story. My Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s about a year ago, and peacefully passed away in August. He, too, was a hard worker with a large family and shared and taught us all so much. He had some memorable sayings, and it’s great that when I hear them or say them, I smile remembering the strong and smart person he was. That’s what we all want to remember!
Nils, thanks for sharing your story… I’ve had some experience with loss, too… and cherish my many, many memories and try to find comfort in them… but you’ve made me want to look at my memories from a different perspective, and find the blessings in them that I haven’t realized before this… may your memories help bring you comfort and peace when you’re low, and missing her.
The last word my mom said to me was when she honked the horn of her car as she drove away. After reading your story I can now say that after all these years I am grateful for that honk!!!! Thanks for sharing
You made me cry. My Mom had it, too. We spent her last two years together and I wouldn’t trade a moment.
Thanks for sharing this post. I wasn’t that close to my mom. Funny in that I was with her in her last days. I sang her the hymns she loved and read her stories. It was hard to be there, but it was a worthwhile experience, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to have been present for her.
Take care.
Blessings
Thank you for sharing that very private moment you had with your mom. At the age of 84 my mom went into a diabetic coma after a very bad fall. When she finally came out of it she was paralysed and very confused. She was in hospital for about 2 weeks and then transferred to a frail care centre. She regained use of movement from the waist up but was never able to walk again. Most of the time she had her wits about her but there were times when she became confused. To see such an independent person so helpless was heartbreaking. I was with her when she passed away and although it was something that is terrible to witness, I had prayed that she would not die alone and my prayers were answered! It has been 6 years now and I miss her every day.
It doesn’t matter how many times I read this it still gets me. I’m afraid this is the road that my family is on and it’s scary and frustrating.
My mom has always been a fighter…and now. *sigh* I love this Nils!
Thank you Nils. Your story reminds us that we are not alone. And that what remains of us is love.
‘Oh shit’ just sums it up perfectly and I only wish my mother would say those words. Probably unlikely but I’m learning not to be surprised. Thank you so much for the look into your experience. It helps.
The last six months of my mother’s life was fraught with a slipping memory and f
frustration as she was still well enough to realize the things she couldn’t remember. It was hard on us kids to see the woman who had gave birth to 9 girls and five boys struggle to complete a sentence. She was 88 years old and even in the midst of all the frustration, we would see humour in some of the things she would do .
One such day we visited the nursing home and she was in the main visiting area checking out the action. If anything was going on, she was in the thick of it. We walked up to her chair and I said ” Hi Mom, it’s Jean.” She checked me out pretty well and then said ” Jean who?” to which I replied ” your daughter”. She had not a clue who I was and then noticed my husband and said ” Hello, Dave” . It was a really funny moment and to this day Dave says she recogonized him because he always was so nice to her. True, he was, but still…
So very very sad!
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