MOMA GEN LOVES WATCHING GOLF ON TV
I’ve always been proud that my mother and I are very much alike, we’re talkers, givers, horse traders, and both artists. The only one I know who is more outwardly friendly than me is her. Oh, and we both believe in ghosts, the afterlife, and anything to do with the mystique.
Often you would find my mom at parties reading palms. She would dress up like a gypsy, big earrings, and her hair tied up a fancy colored scarf. What a hoot, a genuine funny lady. All her friends loved just being around her.
Not only do we have likes, we have hates. Sports, in person and on TV, for one! Unlike my Dad, who loved both, as much as he could get, however he could get it. So, it’s easy to see why it made him crazy that I could not catch, hit, kick, or do anything with a ball. Many birthdays were spent in the yard with a new racket, bat, hoop, or mitt having him hit me with ‘a ball’. He gave that up when I turned eleven.
“Hey, go watch some sports with your dad,” family and friends would say. Because, “That’s what boys do with their dad!” I would and listen to him tell me about each player and either, how great they were or what a jerk they were. I would go blank staring at the screen. Often, I would fall asleep on a weekend afternoon with the droning on of… “…he’s been at bat four times this season… it’s the wind up and the pitch, ball one…” Ugh, I would rather watch a roach attempt to roll over.
‘Sports on TV’ became punishment to me. “Dad, can I go outside and play?” “Oh, so you have go play outside grades?” Okay, here we are with grades again, “No Sir.” “Well then, you’re going to sit right here and count the baskets scored, at least that’s math, or you can go in the corner and read.”
Can you believe it, reading was punishment? It took me years to overcome, “Go in the corner and read,” before I could enjoy a book. 77 years old and you’re attempting to forgive your parents. You tell yourself it no longer bothers you but … sadly it does.
Like I said, my mother hated watching sports on TV as much as I did. So, when sports were on, she made herself scarce; cleaning, cooking, crafting, and painting. The crafting and painting had to be contained to the laundry room so dad would not see it. He thought it frivolous and messy.
In the 1987, Mom survived a debilitating stroke. When she woke, her facial muscles were contorted. She couldn’t walk or stand, her hands were slightly functional, and she couldn’t speak. From then to her death in 2000, she was confined to a wheelchair. Mom couldn’t communicate, wipe, or feed herself. Dad was retired, but he couldn’t take care of her, because she had always taken care of him. Thank heavens dad had done well in his working years so he could afford in-home therapy and full-time help.
Help, that is in addition to my sister, Judy. Judy dedicated herself to mom’s happiness. When she wasn’t taking care of her husband, children, and grandchildren, Judy would spend hours with mom, holding her hand, taking her to the bathroom, and showering her. Taking her out. Yes, she and Mom would drive to the Casinos, visit friends, go to galleries, and shop. God bless Judy, she was Mama Gen’s best friend.
Her aphasia was the toughest thing for her. She wanted so much to speak, but gibberish is the only thing that came out. The harder she tried, the worse it would get, the frustration would finally overwhelm her, and she would sink into silence. After years of therapy, she could only say a few words.
She didn’t want anyone to see her sad. So, she would always work up a smile, with a loud noise and grunt with high energy! It was her way of saying, “Welcome, you guys come in and eat!” when friends or family would visit.
That too was sad. Her friends couldn’t handle her this way. They had no idea what to say or do. Besides, Dad would monopolize the conversation telling his woes and how hard it was on him. They would openly pity him, and you could see this angered mom. ‘Being hard for him’, was totally untrue. My sister was there, plus he had full time help! We thought for Mom, but no… It was for him. Someone had to take over where Mom had left off. Within a half year of mom’s stroke, her friends quit coming by. Never to be seen again until her funeral. I have forgiven them.
Bobbi and I were sitting with Mom one morning having coffee. I watched dad go into his ‘coffee refill routine’, just like he had always done. Reading the paper, without lifting his eyes, he loudly cleared his throat and pushed his coffee cup. Olivia, the help, ran over and took his cup to fill and brought it back. Bobbi and I looked at each other and mouthed, he’s trained another one.
After dad was taking care of, then Olivia could help Mom. All the many women Dad hired loved Mom, but they knew Dad came first. He hardly spoke to Mom except through the help. When he did speak to her it was actually for her. “You’re tired and want to nap, don’t you Genevieve?” “You don’t want more chocolate. Chocolate makes you gain weight which makes you hard to carry, right Genevieve?” He spent hours helping the help with their problems, monopolizing their time, while Mom was left in bed or in her recliner within view.
One day while the help was eating lunch with Dad, Mom started making loud grunts and high whines. The help jumped up and went to her aid saying, “That’s okay sweetie, it’s just a little pee. We can easily clean it up and dry you off.” When Joe shouted from his chair, “God Damn it, Genevieve! We’ve told you if you got to pee let someone know before! Not after!”
Even that didn’t make us blow up. However, the pin that pricked the family ‘I shouldn’t get involved’ bubble was Art Therapy. As I mentioned, mom was an artist. Her painting covered the walls of their home and those of her friends and family. Many sold, and many given. She was always doing something artistic; arranging flowers, charcoal sketching, oil painting, watercolors, painting on glass, crafts, glue, bedazzle. Yes, she got into bedazzle. Until Papa Joe saw how much attention she was getting, then he took over. Bedazzling anything that wouldn’t move. He handed Bobbi a shirt and said, “You better wear that! It’s got over $40 of Bedazzle beads on it.” It looked like a child did it, now ‘he’ was the artist, mom gave him the win.
Once a week, an Art Therapist came over and spent an hour with Mama Gen (Gen is how she signed her art). We had not seen her that happy since before the stroke. Judy got all mom’s paint stuff out and Mom dove in with both hands. Paint was everywhere, she grinned so hard I cried. We were there for several sessions, what a joy!
Two months into it, I asked, “How are the Art sessions going?” Mom sunk in her chair. Olivia said, “Joe thought it was too messy, so he threw her paints out and quit the sessions.” Mom actually attempted to stop Olivia from telling this truth. I got sick.
I called Doc F, an old friend of Dad’s and shared my thoughts, telling him we (the family) were going to have an intervention. He said, “Are you sure? He has lived that way his whole life and he’s not going to change.” I said, he doesn’t have a choice, Mom needs the attention, not him.
Still looking for validation, I called a close friend of mine to tell him my plans. He said, “If you’re telling someone something for their own good, it’s best left unsaid.” But, I knew better…sure.
I discussed it with the family. We all agreed it was time to confront him. Being the oldest, I took the lead. We gathered around the breakfast table, without mom, and laid out collectively, what we saw and how and why it had to change.
He went nuts! He was so ******* upset he could hardly speak. When I told Dad I called Doctor F and solicited his input on this intervention, he told us all to get out. Then specifically to me, “Don’t Ever Come Back!”
Well, that didn’t work.
It took months before he would speak with us again.
By then he had gone through several different “helpers”.
Last time I saw Mama Gen alive was on a visit to Albuquerque I walked in the house from the open garage. Dad was at the kitchen table, waiting for lunch. We small talked greeting and I asked where Mom was. He pointed to the living room where Mom sat in front of the TV. Golf was on, because Mom Loves Golf on TV.