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Three years ago today, at approximately 8:30 AM, my sweet Gladys passed from this earth into the hands of the Lord. It's hard to believe that so much time has elapsed, but I think of her almost every day. Her legacy will remain for many more years to come, not only in my life but in the lives of all of us she influenced.
Gladys Wilma Tarver Parker was 97 years old when she died. To say that she had led a full life is true in many ways, but not true in other ways. She had experienced many aspects of life and had seen the world change tremendously, but because she grew up dirt poor, she had not been exposed to some of the things women of my generation and younger take for granted. Maybe she never missed them and it's only me wishing she had been able to experience these things that makes me sad. Mother was a very smart woman. If she had had the opportunity to go to college, she would have been something to behold! As it was, she dropped out of school in the tenth grade (there were only eleven grades back then) to help her family. She earned her GED much later in life, passing the test after being out of school for decades. She realized only later that there had been a book she could have studied to prepare her for the test.
She was a caregiver all her life. The oldest of ten children, she helped on the farm, taking care of her younger siblings and working in the fields. Then she married and took care of her own family consisting of my dad, three boys and me, the last child. In her old age, she cared for my father until he died. I sometimes wonder what she must have thought about when she woke up in the mornings after Daddy died. Did she ask herself, "What do I do with myself today?" since all she had known was taking care of other people. Probably not. My mother was above all else practical. I know there was no room in her life for self-pity. She just did what needed to be done. And for the most part, she took joy in doing it.
It was especially hard for this strong-willed, independent woman to face the reality of old age and move in with me. She came to that decision on her own, although she did have some gentle prodding from me. When she was 95 years old, she suffered a TIA that was the final evidence my brothers and I needed that she no longer was able to live alone. We let her arrive at the conclusion herself that the time had come, and, in her practical way, she did. So, after almost ten years of living alone, in her own house generously provided by my oldest brother and his wife, she walked away from that life of independence and moved to Baton Rouge with me. Yes, it was hard on her to leave some of her "things" behind, but she also must have known that was the beginning of her new life of dependence. That recognition that she was no longer the strong one, the anchor, must have scared her tremendously, as well as the unknown of what the last part of her old age would bring.
And it wasn't pretty sometimes. Mom lived with me for about fifteen months, and the first months of that period were pretty good. She was still mentally sharp and physically healthy, but she gradually fell prey to that silent, hateful, miserable son-of-a-bitch--dementia.Watching this intelligent, lively, sweet woman sink into fear and confusion nearly gutted me emotionally, and all I could do was stand by and watch as I held her hand. As one of my friends once said of aging parents, "All we can do is provide them with love and cushion their last years with a safe landing." I tried harder than I had ever tried at anything in my life to protect her from the ravages of this disease, but my efforts weren't enough. I finally succumbed to the reality that I could not work two jobs and continue to take care of her at home, even with the most wonderful care-giver in the world that she had with her during the day. If only I had been rich and had the money for 24 hour care, I could have managed, but I didn't and I couldn't.
The day we had to put her in the nursing home was the worst day of my life. It left a hole in my heart that has never healed and probably never will. She had asked to "go somewhere" other than my home. She had begun to lose her spacial orientation and had become convinced that this was not our home, this was not her room, and subsequently refused to go to bed or to believe me when I tried to explain what was happening. "I'm NOT crazy" became her mantra. I see now that this was her worst fear--of losing not only control of her life but of her mind as well. And, when she finally requested going somewhere else for a while, saying she couldn't stay in this confusing house that she had begun to fear, I took the "easy" way out and agreed to find her a place where she could "get better." I will always blame myself for being so cowardly. My friends and family tell me over and over that I was on the brink of exhaustion--emotionally and physically--and that I had done more than anyone could have expected, but it still felt like betrayal. I suppose it always will.
As the days turned into weeks then months in the nursing home (fifteen in all), she gradually sank more and more into the hole of dementia. My afternoons, evenings, and weekends were spent with her. I was determined that she should experience as little fear as possible during this terrifying time, so either I or her care-giver was with her all the time, except after she went to sleep. Those months at the nursing home were some of the most character-building moments of my life, in ways that I could never explain. As Bette Davis said, "Old age ain't for sissies." Enough said about that time. It will, however, haunt me until I die. This was a time I couldn't
really share with anyone. How do you describe such pain to brothers who are miles away or to friends whose lives go on undisturbed by these events? Yes, I had a good support system, but I chose to keep much of the pain inside me. I guess I'm my mother's daughter for sure, just doing what needed to be done in those months. I had once said that the thing I feared most in my life was the death of my mom. By the time it came, I was grateful for it. She--and I frankly I--had been released from an unspeakable horror. And I know that her slow, lingering demise was easy compared to that of some people. She didn't suffer; she wasn't in pain. She just...disappeared in front of my eyes. For all accounts and purposes, I had lost my mother months before she died, so her passing was not traumatic.
Less than a month after Mom died, we closed on this property we call Ridgehaven. This symbolized for me the ending of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another. Here at Ridgehaven, I think of Mom often. When I feed the birds and rejoice in the delight they bring me, when I see the flowers bloom, when I realize how far I've come from a share croppers shack in Richland Parish, Louisiana, when I look around and see some of her precious "things" in my house, I think of my mom. And I am grateful to God for giving her to me. She has been my inspiration, my lodestone, my beacon of light. And I know she smiles down on me from above.
Thank you, Mama, for teaching me what love is all about. I love you, and I miss you terribly.
