Audrey, Part Three

The Later Years!

“The Last Samurai” is a beautiful film about an American expat veteran of the American Civil War (Tom Cruise) living in Japan, who encounters the last samurai warrior of the title (Ken Watanabe).  They form an unlikely friendship, and they are the last men alive on the battlefield, when the Cruise character assists his friend to depart this world in a noble and “good death.” 

At the end, the American limps into the royal palace and presents the emperor with the sword of the departed warrior.  The emperor says, “Tell me how he died.”  The American pleads with the emperor, “Let me tell you how he lived.”        

My mother died a good death at the age of ninety-nine; but before I tell you about that, let me tell you how she lived, starting with a story.

She was in her late eighties when she booked a flight to visit her kith and kin in Dallas and Austin.  We drove to the Van Nuys Flyaway, where I stood in line to buy her ticket for the shuttle bus to LAX.  When I caught up with her, she was in an animated conversation, and it was a striking tableau.  My five-foot-three, 105-pound mother was chattering with this African American man who was at least six-four, two-seventy-five.  Their laughter and their familiarity led me to believe that she had run into an old friend.    

No, they were perfect strangers.  They had never laid eyes on each other before; but in less than five minutes they were lifelong chums, sharing pictures of their grandchildren.  That was Audrey all right.  It didn’t matter your race, creed, color, national origin, or station!  She embraced others with enthusiasm — young or old, man or woman, black or white, gay or straight.  She had an open and curious nature, turning otherwise ordinary encounters into adventures.

Well into her eighties, she had been the picture of health, energetic and buoyant, defying gravity and expectations for the elderly. She was the inspiration for the Energizer Bunny.  Always ready to get up and go, she was eighty-eight the last time she undertook the four-hour, five-bus trip from her apartment to our house. 

But not long after her ninetieth birthday she began to deteriorate; and since she was still living by herself, there was considerable worry throughout our extended family about her future and her care.  Especially when she admitted that she had taken a few falls.  Perhaps because she was petite, didn’t weigh much, and didn’t have far to fall, she had not broken anything; but one fall severely damaged her rotator cuff.   That set things in motion for her last chapters.

Audrey was ninety-three years old when she came to live with our family.  We thought she might last another year — maybe two — because her body had been letting her down, but she fooled us.  She lived until two months into her hundredth year, and she did not go quickly or quietly into that good night.  She was convinced that old age was a temporary condition, from which she would soon recover.

It griped her no end that she could no longer do the normal simple things; like take a pot off the stove, or peel the yams, or get in and out of the tub on her own.  She needed a walker which was also an aggravation.  She loved it when we took her to the market where she could push the shopping cart; it made her feel younger and less conspicuous. 

One day she was standing in our kitchen, hands on the walker and muttering to herself because she was stuck.  She couldn’t lift her feet enough to walk.  She looked down and said, “C’mon feet.  Get to movin’.”  She rocked back and forth until one foot came off the floor, and then the other, took three or four steps and stopped.  Her frustration bubbled up and she swore, “DAMN!  I WISH I WAS NINETY AGAIN.” 

That was some perspective, right?  Truth be told, Audrey had a keen sense of perspective all her life.  She knew how to hold onto a buck, but she was never enamored of the world’s goods.  She always put people over things, but the few things she had were of good quality and well cared for.  She was a woman of enormous talent and creativity, and she never bragged about it.  For any and all successes in her life, she gave thanks and due credit to the Lord.    

That perspective served her well in her last few years.  She boiled her life down to the things of real importance:  A fresh peach from our tree!  The sun streaming through the living room window onto her shoulders!  A newly picked rose from our garden which she could hold up to her face to catch the scent.  Books on tape with a big-button tape player from the Braille Institute!  Getting to the bathroom on time!

And most importantly, connections!  We got for her a phone with huge buttons so she could ring up family and friends.  It was de rigueur for any of our daughters’ friends to drop in on Grammy when visiting our house.  It was not unusual to pass by her room and find two or three high schoolers sitting crossed legged on the floor near her, being regaled with stories from her childhood almost a century before. 

Through all her frustrations with aging, there were three things that kept her going, three things that made it workable for all of us, three things that made us all grateful.

Number One.  She had a strong mind.  Frail of body, yes; but she did not show signs of serious dementia.  She had most of her wits about her until the last month of her life.  

Number Two.  She had a sense of humor.  Audrey could laugh at herself, her condition, her life.  She told wonderful jokes and anecdotes about getting old.  With a chuckle she said, “Son, getting old is not for sissies.” 

Number Three.  She had a daughter-in-law.  There are many jokes about mothers-in-law, and that is because the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship has risks.  Even my brothers questioned her sanity when my wife proposed that we invite Audrey into our home.  Later they would consider a flight to Rome and an audience with the Holy Father to submit a petition for Liza’s sainthood.  They knew very well that our mom’s feistiness and her strength of will could be troublesome.

Indeed, there were moments.  It was not always silky smooth.  It was an adjustment for Audrey to give up her independence, but it was also an adjustment for Liza, who added Audrey’s care to her already busy life with teen age daughters at home.  Liza took on the responsibility to feed and bathe my mom, get her dressed, keep her company, manage her health care, get her to the doctor, organize her meds.

And in the day to day, they found common ground and an endearing friendship.  Each morning they shared toast and coffee.  They discussed the news of the day.  They prayed together; that was the connection that blunted the sharp elbows and sanded over the rough spots.  In brief, Liza had made a home for Audrey.

Liza also had to pick Audrey up when she fell, which happened with increasing frequency until she was falling at least once a week – maybe a total of one hundred times during her stay with us.  There came a time when it was no longer possible for Liza to provide the physical care that Audrey required.  We had some in-home care, but it was not enough.  After four-and-a-half years with us, Audrey moved to a skilled nursing facility, where she lived the last sixteen months of her life.  It was far from us, but close to both of my brothers, who took on the financial responsibility and the communication with her caregivers.  I could only get there once a week, but between the brothers and their wives and a nephew or two, Audrey had a visitor almost every day.

And when Audrey got to her new digs, she was as feisty and funny as ever.

To be continued…

Next week:   Audrey, Part Four:  A Sweet Goodbye.

NOTE:

This post appears on Sunday, February 21, 2021.  Exactly one hundred seventeen years ago in 1904, Audrey was born on this date.