Ninety-two Years Old-ish

 

Happy Birthday Mom!

Last February, we celebrated my mom's 90th and 91st birthday, determined to make up for the in-person time we had lost to Covid the year before. On her 90th, twelve months earlier, I had felt cheated, thinking how unfair it was for somebody to hit such a milestone confined to her home, even though she was still healthy and vibrant enough to enjoy life. We made do, convened via Zoom from our various corners of a still quarantined world. We comforted ourselves with thoughts of a delayed in-person celebration when everything would return to "normal." 

Fast forward to February 2022, with normalcy returning on a macro scale but with mysterious whispers of a downturn on the home front, for mom. The year began, for me, with frequent visits to New York. Through sheer force of will, she had overcome a handful of devastating blows to her bones in her 80's, and had surprised many (though not me) by learning to walk again, twice. But forces of nature are not infallible, not even my mother, and suddenly, in early 2022, she was struggling -- inexplicably -- to walk. Still, when my daughters and I arrived in New York to celebrate her two birthdays, "no" was not an option. I dug out a wheelchair, made sure she was decked out in her usual fashion, and off we went to one of her favorite Manhattan restaurants, my brother's objections notwithstanding. 

As it turns out, both my brother and I were correct. Somehow, I knew it was important to go, and, in spite of what I assume was intractable pain, mom had the time of her life. Somehow, ever more cautious than I, my brother sensed she was in worse shape than we knew, and maybe the outing wasn't necessary. Not necessary indeed, but, at least for me, important, as I cling to memories of that dinner -- the last time my mom set foot -- or wheels -- in a restaurant. 

It's an ironic twist of fate, I suppose, that the pall of the pandemic lifted only to make way for a more personal dark cloud. My always beautiful and active and headstrong mother is still fighting, but the battles have been daunting -- even for her. For almost a year, now, she has been confined in a nursing home -- first to a bed and now, against all odds, to a chair, with a daily ten minute stroll around the hallway with her walker. She has accepted this new normal far better than I have; though I watched two grandmothers languish in nursing homes, I never imagined my mother would. Languish, I suppose, is a strong word. She is still who she always was, shouting out orders to anybody within earshot, determined that everything will be done as she deems necessary. Just goes to show, you don't need to wear a St. John suit and carry a Chanel "pocketbook" to be the boss. 

Yesterday, my brother and I celebrated mom's 92nd birthday with her. We brought the restaurant to her, and we pretended everything was "normal." We snagged a couple of residents and aides and nurses to sing happy birthday with us -- not difficult with the promise of cupcakes. Mom seemed particularly fascinated by the number. "Ninety-two," she marveled. "I really should be dead." She said it with her trademark smile, knowing it will take a lot more for her to lose the war.