Will She Know Me?

If my dad was still around and had been in the car with my daughter and me, he would have almost certainly used the word “yammering” and said something about how our jaws must be getting tired because his ears surely were.

But Dad has been gone for nearly two years. It was just Celeste and me in the car, yammering away, on a five-hour drive to Ohio to see my mom, who lives with my brother and his wife. Celeste had already driven three hours right off a 12-hour overnight shift to reach me, so I wasn’t surprised when, a few hours into our drive, she dozed off.

She had turned on a podcast just after we started, but we talked over top of it so long the original show had rolled into something else. I was enjoying the drive and not fully listening until the podcaster mentioned going to visit her elderly mother.

The timing was serendipitous. Visiting my 90-year-old mom was the cause for our trip.

I nudged the volume up a bit and listened more closely.

“People ask if she still knows me,” said the podcaster. “But the real question is — do I still know her?”

My eyes instantly stung with the threat of tears as I recalled the last few times I visited Mom. She would wake only long enough to eat, and then head back to bed. She no longer liked nearly any of her formerly favorite foods. Her once beloved television shows no longer held her interest.

Before losing Dad, if people were around, Mom was right in their midst. While Dad had been quiet and reserved and not very social, my night owl mother would visit with family or guests until there was no one else left awake.

And she always had a great sense of humor that often bordered on the edge of inappropriate.

But the mom of my past few visits only wanted to sleep.

The last time, I stayed with Mom while my brother and his wife got away for a few days. Although I had known she wasn’t doing well prior to my visit, I had hoped for more of Mom than she ended up being able to give.

Until the very last evening of my stay, when my niece, Madeline, joined us for dinner.

“Did Ben come with you?” Mom asked, looking around for Madeline’s husband, who hadn’t been able to come.

Mom really likes Ben. Not only is he easy on the eyes, but the man can fix almost anything, is a great cook, has a fun sense of humor, and is often game for hanging out with seniors. Even though Ben wasn’t there, Mom still brought up his name several times.

That evening, it took Mom a little longer to tire out, but she eventually turned toward her room and announced, “I really need to go to bed.” And then, with a mischievous grin, she added, “with Ben.”

It was the perfect parting shot. A glimpse of the rascally mom I had known all my life.

That visit left me celebrating. She was still in there.

And now, on this trip, I had Celeste as my buffer. Even if the visit didn’t go so well, I was still getting some time with my girl.

Then that podcast started me worrying whether Mom would still know me. And if I would know her.

It ended up being a few days of lovely commotion, with Madeline stopping by Friday night and then my brother’s granddaughters, ages 5 and 7, on Saturday. With Mom at the table, we dumped a bin of Legos out and built some elaborate creations. She occasionally reached out to handle a piece. Said Kurt and I had once played with these, too.

Even though she was quiet, she was there. I could see her. And she was clearly enjoying herself — especially when she reached up to adjust her headband and realized Celeste had stealthily swapped it out for one with fuzzy mouse ears.

There are few things in this world more adorable than a giggling 90-year-old.

That got us going. We wore wigs and hats and crowns and took lots of pictures.

After five hours, she fell asleep at the table. Instead of her room.

I call that a win.

When it was time to head home, she hugged us so hard.

Yet there are times I feel I’m grieving someone who’s still here. I miss who she was. I miss being able to call and talk to her on the phone — and have her talk back. I miss taking her to yard sales and getting aggravated over how much time she spends talking at each house.

I miss her 3 AM emails and her quick wit and her incredible memory for names and dates and family history.

And I miss when it was Mom and me yammering in the car until Dad’s ears got tired.