Never too old to appreciate good dance moves

While for most people it was time to “get ready for some football,” this past Sunday my niece and daughter and GMa and I decided to huddle up on the sectional in our jammies and watch chick flicks. Scrolling through selections of newly available on demand movies we picked Magic Mike XXL.

Mom and Mindy smiling at Magic Mike.

Rhiannon left the room with a groan but was caught sneaking down the stairs to peek when ever Hana and I were screeching with delight.

Meanwhile mom was clapping and singing random, nonsensical lyrics to the beat mocking the half naked rapper with six-pack abs.

It was a perfect moment in our lives lived moment to moment with mom.

I miss her, the mom who loved and nurtured me, who encouraged me, who believed in me. She was a dedicated mom who never said no to any of her children in need. She was a role model for social justice and political advocacy who taught me that caring, whether for an orphaned baby squirrel, a homeless person, or her own mother and son in their dying days was not a burden but a responsibility.

Mom was brilliant in so many ways and I’m sure knew what was happening to her long before we did; weekly games of scrabble and contract bridge at the senior center were her desperate attempt to exercise her brain and stave off the inevitable. The hardest part of witnessing the toll of this illness was seeing mom endure the personal heartbreak of experiencing the loss of her cognitive ability. She had a hard time joining a foursome at bridge games and her scrabble buddy completely stopped coming. She told me she wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

But then one day she did wake up in another place in time and much to our delight she brought us along. For months we went through a period of learning about her childhood days with her brother and sisters in New Bedford. We even met her high school sweetheart vicariously through mom's time warp.

Then there were the songs, sung out of tune but lyrics as crisp as they were written yesterday. I started Googling the words and discovered a whole new era of music that taught me that a “flat foot floosie” was a hooker and the “foy, foy” was slang for venereal disease. Who knew?

These days she talks far less. She knows far fewer people who come through the door. Casually she asks, “Who is back at your house?” hoping the answers will give her a clue to the familiar face. She repeats the same verse every night before bed, “Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

When I see her old friends they ask of her and many are surprised she still lives at home. Quite honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure there are lots of assisted living and nursing home facilities dedicated to elderly patients with dementia but even if she did go to one I would still have to be there every day to make sure she was getting the same care I would giver her. Family and friends that come here would have to go to a sterile facility to visit her where I’m sure having a slick bodied Michael Strahan wearing nothing but a thong and dancing through a shower of dollar bills in high definition on the big screen would not be allowed.

So while there are things I certainly miss about the old mom, I count myself among the most fortunate to have her home and to have such a supportive group of family and friends who pitch in when needed. It makes me a little sad when she knows the dog is Mindy but doesn’t remember my name, but mom still experiences occasions of pure joy like when the cat who is miserable to everyone else in the house curls up on her lap and purrs. She laughs spontaneously at things unexplained and mysterious, and sings out of tune.

This mom has her moments.