COMMENTARY
By STACEY MORRIS
Published in The Post-Star newspaper 5/09/02
That mothers tend to be overworked and underappreciated is a truism most people won't argue with -- especially with Mother's Day around the corner.
Margy Morris, my mother, is no exception to that rule. From age 25 on, she devoted her life to raising four children during the '60s and '70s, in an era when many men still hadn't caught on that changing diapers and doing dishes were part of the parental package.
I've never told her what I'm about to say, because expressing these sort of things verbally isn't my strong point, so here goes.
This Mother's Day, I honor my mother, and anyone like her, for her infallible patience and for her amazing capacity to love.
It's a capacity that has transcended pain and loss and disappointment and time.
When destiny intercedes in your life, you rarely know it at the moment. Maybe that's a good thing -- would we necessarily continue on if we could see what was ahead?
If we saw too many difficulties and too much pain, perhaps some of us, out of self-preservation or selfishness or common sense might turn back and take a different road.
My parents met by chance on an elevator ride in 1961. They were staying at the same hotel in Pittsburgh. My mom caught my father's eye and he slyly arranged an introduction through a mutual friend and the rest is history -- the merging of two destinies.
I have a feeling, if my mother had some sort of magical, extrasensory vision in that elevator that would have allowed her to see the whole road, she would have married my father one year later anyway.
Even though at age 63, she is a mother once again -- this time to her husband. My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease about three years ago. We all saw it coming, but resisted defining it with an official diagnosis until it was too obvious to ignore.
With her retirement around the corner, my mother is about to enter what would normally be the "my turn" phase of a woman's life ... a time when she starts living for herself for a change.
We're all dealt different hands in life and I know Alzheimer's isn't as horrifying as some of the cards thrown people's way. But as Nancy Reagan put it years (and years) ago when she made the first public acknowledgment of her husband's illness -- it's a long goodbye.
And it's a time-consuming and draining and exasperating goodbye.
Being the primary caregiver to an Alzheimer's patient means that your needs come in on the list somewhere between No. 101 and dead last.
As she's making dinner after work, I see her face fall with weariness each time he fires off another incoherent question, diverting her attention for the 25th time in two minutes.
When she's home with him alone (which is a lot of the time), there's no one to talk to. Going to work Monday through Friday is her break. It's where finally, she gets the opportunity to tell a joke to a friend or discuss a movie that looks good or the headlines on the front page of the morning paper.
When I was growing up, my parents loved to travel, play tennis, go to restaurants together. Now he's afraid to ride in a car that goes more than 45 miles per hour (one of the fears he's developed in the last couple of years).
Another recent development: his obsession with tissues, napkins and paper projects in general. At any opportunity, he stuffs them into his pant and sweater pockets. By the end of the day he's got more padding than an ice hockey goalie.
When he's not spewing questions or nodding off to sleep (he's on mood medication to tame his unpredictable bursts of rage), my father often sits at the table, folding and refolding the stockpile of Kleenex from his pockets.
When my mother gets him ready for bed at night, part of the ritual is to turn on a CD of soothing instrumental music to relax him, followed by the emptying of his pockets, where not just Kleenex turns up. Everything from lipstick to shaving razors to wadded up NiMo bills come streaming, Houdini-like, out of his pockets.
On a good night, he'll wake up a couple times during the night. Otherwise, he's restless and turns on the lights and wanders through the house.
About a year ago, she had the house "child-proofed," with locks on all the closets so he couldn't burrow through them and either hide or rearrange their contents to an undisclosed location.
I'm sure there's much she misses in my father that's gone -- that's the painful downside of the disease.
But there have been unexpected, often delightful upsides. The man who never expressed physical affection now throws his arms open for long, lingering hugs, or he'll tell my mother that he misses her when she's gone and that he doesn't want her to leave -- even if it's for a quick errand.
And if he's feeling particularly amorous, he follows her around the house, shadowing her like a toddler.
My mother has had the same license plate for the past 40 years -- she's kept it constant with every car change.
MMM 62.
Her initials and the year she married. It's still the year that means more to her than any other.
And on my father's bedroom bureau is the 8-by-10 black-and-white portrait of my mother on her wedding day -- 1962.
We moved seven times growing up and that picture of his bride always found its way onto the top of my father's oak dresser.
The photographer had her stand at an angle, her train swept elegantly to one side as she looked off into the distance, straight ahead.