Electric Toothbrushes & Shillelaghs

I stopped by the store to get the items my mom needed. Floss, mouthwash, toothpaste, hair brush, mascara, Boost and some tasty treats. When I arrive at my mom’s nursing facility, I grab all the bags and enter the building. Mask, check. Sign in, check. I walk the carpeted halls and enter the elevator, whose doors are programmed to stay open for an extended time to accommodate all those who live here. I impatiently push the close button with my elbow, bags hanging and clanging from my arms.

The temperature in the building is always EXTRA HOT. In the depth of winter, I’d wear shorts and a tank if I could. When I get to her room, my mom’s in bed and watching the Hallmark Channel. When I say Hi Mama, she slowly turns her head toward my voice. She pauses, I mask-smile and she says, Oh I Was Just Hoping You’d Come! I Conjured You! I hug her and envelop her as much as I can. She’s become a receiver of hugs because Parkinson’s has taken so much, including her ability to embrace. I am the Hugger and she’s the Huggee. The air mover in her mattress engages and inflates her bed. We chat. I avoid asking the questions that she can’t answer because I can see the slight panic that flashes in her eyes when she knows she should know the answer but doesn’t. I stick to benign, easy topics. She tells me about whatever’s on her mind and often shares big stories which are The Truth to her and I allow her these unless these stories upset her. Then, I do my best to gently anchor her in the truth, that pesky Parkinson’s is at it again.

I tell her I brought some treats and ask if she’d like to see them. Slowly I show her each item I brought from the store. A big event, a wedding, is upcoming and we have some things to do. I start with her teeth, flossing and brushing. We used her Sonicare toothbrush instead of the standard issue. I get the blue, kidney shaped plastic vessel so she has a spot to spit. I turn on the toothbrush. My mom slowly raises her hand, smiling (as much as one can while their daughter brushes their teeth) and says, Wickuls! Wickuls! and I stop the brush. She’s laughing as she says, TICKLES! LAUGHING. I’m laughing. I bring my forehead to hers and we laugh together, the joy holding us both.

Then we move to the wedding outfit finalization. She’s still in bed so I lay out her wedding outfit on top of her so she can feel like she’s wearing it. We have a photo shoot so I can show her pictures of how she looks. She loves her outfit! Then, we move to the shoes. Oh, the shoes. My mother loves them. We try on the different options. She chooses the Dragon Fruit flats, because they’re darling and comfy…and because she loves the name of the color. She always held a special spot for creatively named cosmetics and nail polish names. Such flair and whimsy! She wants a different size of shoe, and I tell her I’ll order them and bring them over when they arrive. The harsh truth of her being in a wheelchair and that the shoes don’t need to be that comfortable sits bitterly on my tongue. Why would I even think to say that? In what world would that practicality surpass a woman’s joy in picking out shoes for her son’s wedding? A small surge of guilt swishes in my gut.

I’ve started to sweat at this point. I’ve stripped down as much as I can. My mother glows. I move to her hair, brushing and trimming. I ask her if she’d like to put on some lipstick. She says no. She sees the surprise on my face and switches her answer to make me happy. I explain that it’s all for her, and she should only put on lipstick if she wants. It’s not until later that I remember how she wore lipstick everyday for the entirety of my life. Revlon, a plummy brown and its tip always in a perfect triangle. Plum Storm. I can see it and smell it.

She decides she’d like lipstick. She purses her lips and I carefully swipe on the color. She says it feels strange after not wearing it for so long. I snap a photo of her in her bed, outfit arranged, hair styled and lips painted. I show her the photo. She looks at me, her eyes twinkling and says, We should probably put on some mascara, too. I offer to put it on for her. She asks whether I’ve ever put mascara on anyone before. I assure her that I have, indeed. Our eyes lock as I’m applying it. I’ll never forget this moment, or the look I found. Her eyes had become Love Beams, communicating everything and every word she couldn’t say or find or remember. She hugged my whole being with those stunning deep, slate blue eyes.

Strains of guitar and singing work their way into her room. It’s Steve, who comes frequently to perform and does sing-alongs with the residents. Mom loves this and is excited to get to the common area. Her care team comes in to transfer her into her wheelchair and we wheel over. Steve greets my mom and tells me that she has an Irish poem that she performs for them. He asks if he can record her as she recites it. I’m mesmerized as she softly speaks the words.

Old St. Pat has a Shillelagh in his pocket and a shamrock in his hat

But there’s a secret to an Irishman by the eye it can’t be seen

It’s the magic to his mischief

Begorrah his blood is green!

Steve beams at her. Then he asks for requests. I say, Do you know any Carpenter’s songs? and my mom says, How about On The Day That You Were Born? and Steve begins to serenade a mother and a daughter with the daughter’s Baby Song,

On the day that you were born

the angels got together

and decided to create a dream-come-true

So they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold

and starlight in your eyes of blue

The roundness and enormity of the moment swallowed me whole.

The last six years brought many acute health situations requiring calm and steadiness and research and love while the cortisol coursed through my body. All while watching the greedy, twisted thief named Parkinson’s steal her mobility and her mind. Living in ambiguity and uncertainty, while clearly seeing deterioration and symptoms raging is like breathing smoke. But small moments glimmer, oxygen in the haze, that do, indeed, provide grace and comfort now that she has passed.

In the last days of my mother’s life, I played her favorite music. Her beloved Vivaldi. The Carpenters. John Denver & The Muppets Christmas album. I read her Mary Oliver. I climbed into bed with her and rested my head in the curve of her neck, nestled into her collarbone and listened to the syncopatic rhythm of our hearts. How many times in my life had I been right there, that ancestral home of my mother’s chest? I don’t remember the first time. Or all the times between. But that last one? I felt the vastness of our physical connection. And Begorrah, I’ll remember that home forever.