My aging mother resembles a snow leopard as she rests in her bed at a rehabilitation center, her spotted faux fur coat enveloping her like a blanket. The cream and white synthetic pelt harmonizes with her almost unblemished face. Completing her attire are leopard print pajamas, coordinated sunglasses, and red leather gloves.
Insisting on taking the coat along during the ambulance journey to the emergency room after a fall at her apartment, and later to the skilled nursing facility known as “SNF” for simplicity, she cautioned the EMTs not to damage her coat as they secured her to the stretcher.
That was several months ago. Now, she sleeps restlessly, swathed in layers for warmth, despite the facility feeling excessively warm to me.
I shed a layer of clothing, having learned to dress in tiers for these visits. Drawing a chair nearer to the bed for my promised nightly tuck-in routine, my mother stirs, removes one glove, and grasps my hand firmly. Her gaunt, purple-veined hands, akin to a revealing portrait, disclose her 94 years on Earth.
Our intertwined lives have been a tumultuous journey. For years, my mother surged forward towards her desires at a rapid pace, while I cautiously applied the brakes at every turn. Since childhood, our mother-daughter dynamic has been reversed—I assumed the responsible role, reining in her impulsiveness. I used to remind her of her struggles in the world. Now, my nurturing is a solace she allows herself.
The author, as a baby, with her mother. (Courtesy Liz Vago)
I dread that our shared voyage is approaching its inevitable end.
On her recent birthday, I reserved a windowless meeting room for a small family gathering, featuring homemade carrot cake and a dash of whiskey-infused Irish cream. We watched a video montage compiled by my brother, showcasing moments from our mother’s life.
“The video will be uplifting,” he assured. I hoped my mother would perceive it the same way, refraining from comparing the past to the present. I wished I could also suspend reality momentarily.
My mother remained impassive as the video traversed through the years—her as a child with a large bow adorning her Dutch bob, her bundled with us in snow gear for sledding, her donning miniskirts and flamboyant hats at social gatherings.
Her interest piqued only upon viewing short video messages from the caregivers who had tended to her at home, now her companions. Her nurse sang “Happy Birthday,” the physical therapist cheered in a whimsical hat and beads, and the home health aide praised “my beautiful lady.” The pinnacle of the video was my Aunt Marie’s accordion rendition. Witnessing this, my mother beamed and applauded her sister-in-law’s slightly off-key performance.
Relieved, I held her hand. We made it through. And glimpsed a flicker of her former self.
“But it wasn’t envy I felt through the decades of my mother’s wild outfits and suspect housekeeping,” writes Liz Vago, “it was embarrassment. I was afraid people would judge her — and me.” (Courtesy Liz Vago)
Respecting my mother’s wish for autonomy and self-sufficiency while countering the reality of custodial care is now my responsibility. “Custodial” aligns with the narrative my mother has always dreaded—that she would be dismissed by a system viewing the elderly through statistics and medication regimens.
I spend sleepless nights contemplating how to provide my mother with the best end-of-life care now that discussions have turned to transitioning to round-the-clock assistance. Perhaps I’ll bring her picnic lunches with elegant tableware or introduce a floor lamp to soften the harsh overhead lighting. “Soft lighting is more flattering,” my mother has always advised.
I lack the authority to dictate how or when my mother’s journey concludes. If I could, she would peacefully drift away in a dream, carried by Chippendale dancers to the heavens. Yet, I can facilitate those entrusted with her care to truly see her.
Even I have grappled with truly seeing her over the years. What teenage girl seeking to impress a crush wants to hear praise for her mother’s coolness? Why did she feel compelled to amass multiples of every item that caught her fancy? My emotions throughout the years of her flamboyant attire and unconventional housekeeping were not envy but embarrassment. I feared judgment towards her—and by extension, towards me. I failed to appreciate her exuberance for life. I failed to grasp that it could serve as my guide.
The author and her mother in their last selfie together. (Courtesy Liz Vago)
I am uncertain of life’s course once our invisible bond is severed. I contemplate future travels and personal pursuits once freed from caregiving duties, yet guilt washes over me. I acknowledge that no vacation, fitness regimen, or professional endeavor can fill the void left by her absence.
My mother’s eyelids flutter. She loosens her grip on my hand.
“Mom, you need rest. I should leave.”
I plant a kiss on her forehead.
“Sweet dreams.”
She smiles and offers a fist bump. Our knuckles connect. In unison, we raise our arms and wiggle our fingers, imaginary confetti sprinkling stardust around us both.