The Swan Song is the beautiful legendary song sung only once by a swan in its lifetime ‒ as it is dying.
My mother Marilyn was a force to be reckoned with; she was her own woman. Mom and my dad, Spike, married in 1950. They were quite the couple.
In 1969 Miss Marilyn received her Masters Degree at SMU in speech therapy and pathology. She started her career in North Dallas at the Richardson Independent School District. She was coordinator of the speech therapy program from 1972 to 1992.
On June 14, 2001 Spike came home from a convention in Austin and Mom made him his favorite delicacy: macaroni and cheese with tomatoes. After lunch they retired to the bedroom for a little afternoon romance. My father died making love to Mom.
“If I could choose a place to die, it would be in your arms.” Not a bad way to go, but not a pleasant experience for Mom, I imagine.
She went on to marry two unsuspecting gentlemen and wore them down to bloody stumps. I’m not saying that she actually killed my two step-fathers, but let’s put it this way: the Dallas Police called her “the Black Widow!”
Of course I’m joking… but sometimes I wonder.
Mom had moved into the posh Presbyterian Village North retirement community. (I affectionately called the inhabitants, the Village people.) It was here that she cornered my late step-fathers and was working on yet another easy target. Luckily by that time I had become mother’s Power of Attorney and put my foot down, probably saving that poor man’s life.
Mother’s super human strength had started to fade as the early signs of dementia crept in. Two years ago we decided that the stylish Miss Marilyn – a clinical shopaholic ‒ would be moving to lovely Pagosa Springs, Colorado. She was excited to be with her two sons and her daughter-in-law; but was miffed that Pagosa has no Neiman Marcus nor a Nordstrom. Mom entered the Pine Ridge Extended Care Center and reluctantly got used to the new routine. Soon she was directing operations at the center and was given the nickname “Hollywood.”
The nurses and certified nurse assistants love my mother. We feel that Mom is getting the tender loving care that she deserves and we get to see her quite often. Mom has had several bad falls necessitating emergency room visits, some requiring staples in her head. But she’s a real trooper and bounces back every time.
Presently Mom’s dementia has gotten to the point where she is a mere shadow of her former self. This coming September Miss Marilyn will reach the ripe old age of 94. She is losing weight, is quite frail and cannot walk. Her nurses have to assist her in all everyday tasks. She has a hard time swallowing now and requires pureed food and a thickening agent in her water.
My brother Ross and I visit her every other day. Soon we will start visiting every day as she slowly fades. We hug and kiss her, read the mail to her, sing songs and bring a new picture book every visit. We still wheel her out to the courtyard and enjoy the outdoors, but her conversational skills have diminished greatly. Sometimes we can’t understand a word she says.
Miss Marilyn is highly medicated and is usually mellow, but sometimes she becomes agitated while trying to communicate something to us and can’t get the message across. Very frustrating for us all. Once in a while we figure out what she’s trying to relate and it’s a bit spooky. The other day she asked where Dad was. She was waiting for Spike to pick her up in a car and wanted us to wheel her out to the parking lot.
Mom spends most of her time sleeping. So her dreams have become reality and her waking hours are now just moments of confusion, frustration and a longing for some kind of normalcy. Her real world is not a very pleasant place. She’s probably trying her best to regain her life in the physical realm but is failing miserably. All my life I made Mom laugh, but in the last year she hasn’t even mustered a smile. She was a very devout woman, but she’s lost her religion. And when you add the pandemic to the mix, it’s a perfect storm.
I’ve given Miss Marilyn permission to go home, that Ross and I will be alright on our own. (I would hope so – I’m 70 years old, for goodness sake.) She’s ready to go and we’ll miss her, but why must nature prolong this agony? We are living in suspended animation waiting uncomfortably for her to pass. My mother has become my daughter ‒ a frightened little girl. I need to hold her hand and tell her how much I love her. I assure her that everything will be alright. But who am I trying to convince ‒ my mother or myself?
Someday, hopefully soon, Spike will show up in his Buick and take the love-of-his-life home. I’m sure they’ll have a lot of catching up to do.
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.