In her 70s, my mother began to call some women “Marge.”
The real Marge, a kind, caring neighbor, visited my parents with homemade cookies and condominium gossip. She enjoyed my mother’s company. She and my mother had great rapport. Mostly, Marge appreciated my quirky, unconventional mother. Mom felt safe with Marge.
The first new Marge was my parents’ regular waitress at the deli where they ate breakfast. She greeted them each morning with a warm hello and a basket of rolls, and then conversed as she brought their usual egg order along with a white paper bag for the uneaten rolls. When I counted eight bags in the freezer, Mom said, “Marge at the restaurant doesn’t want us to run out.”
Other Marges included her longtime hairdresser and a doting home aide. On one of the aide’s days off, my mother fell, broke her pelvis, spent three weeks in the hospital, and then another three in rehab. During that time, my father got pneumonia and died.
In my mother’s absence, the doting aide found a new job. I explored other homecare options. None felt right. With enormous guilt, but little choice, I put my mother in a nursing home.
In time, Mom blossomed. Her sass and wit returned. She looked and sounded happier and more relaxed than she had been as shut-in the condo when my father was alive. Except for a scowling night aide, she called “Lasagna” the staff showered her with attention and found her fun to be around.
“Let’s leave this dump, Marge,” she told her favorite aide one day while I was there. “My daughter’s crazy and I’m missing something important.”
“What?” the aide asked.
“A man.”
“What’ll you do with a man, Esther?”
Mom said, “Neck around.”
Another Marge polished her nails with wild colors. A kitchen Marge gave her lots of attention and bags of rolls to go.
I was grateful my mother found Marges. Then one by one, they left. Mom began to complain. About the food, her stomach, bedtime, and Lasagna.
One afternoon, when we were sitting together in the living area and Lasagna was sitting there by herself, my mother, fidgeting and glancing from her to me, said, “Lasagna doesn’t like me.”
“Lasagna doesn’t seem to like anyone, Mom.”
“She’s mean at bedtime. Why can’t I come with you?”
Ouch! I spoke to the social worker before leaving. In the car, I thought about 8-year-old me many moons before, stuck in the children’s dining room at a resort. “Why can’t I eat with you?” I pleaded with my parents after one uncomfortable meal. For the rest of that vacation, I sat in the main dining room between my mom and dad.
I was not as good a parent to my 85-year-old mom.
Later that month, my mother died. The doctor wrote ‘heart attack’ on the death certificate. He told me she’d been asleep. When I picked up her belongings, Lasagna was on duty. “Sorry about your mother,” she said.
I thanked her. “Was she okay at bedtime?”
“Fine.” Lasagna walked away.
I pray my mother died without harm or fear. I pray she found bags of rolls in heaven and angels she calls Marge.
Wonderfully touching. All of us in the sandwich generations think we never do enough for our parents. However, we do the best we can and allow/help them maintain their freedom and dignity if we can
This resonates so much with me, having had similar experiences with my mother. It’s written with great compassion and humor.
Where have you been Joe DiMaggio?? Thought you had given up on us.
Wow…great post. Mixture of laughing and crying.
Keep posting…more often
Great post – very touching. It really affirms the importance of a parental relationship and how long it lasts (forever) And, dont think you weren’t great to your mother
To write something that touching speaks volumes about your relationship with your Mom.
You were both very lucky!
Met your mom. (Parents). I met them at camp.
I met ur mom (parents) @ Tamakwa. We were buds. Ira
Nancy, you showed us the spirit your Mom, Esther, with few words. I think you were/are a great daughter and that both of your parents knew that. My heart is in my throat. Much love, Heidi
Thank you, all. I appreciate your very sweet comments. I miss my mother and father tons. That never goes away, does it?
Ira, you got me singin’ Tamakwa, Tamakwa. Can’t believe you found me. Who are you playing tether ball ball with nowadays.
Love ‘n Stuff, Nancy
Welcome back to the blogosphere! Missed you. As I remember, you also keep a healthy supply of bread in your freezer. Now I know why. Genetic! Thanks for sharing your memories.
Nancy…My mom just passed this year in her 96th year…She had all fer senses…She did not wear glasses or a hearing aid…..I never visited her in a hospital till two weeks before she passed…..I lost my very best friend….I know she was old and led a great life but it is all so final….Memories are what make me smile…..Singing Tamakwa…..How about….”aand now may the great camper of all campers be with us till we meet again”…
Lovely, Marge — I mean, Nancy.
In her last year, my mother took to calling the aides and health workers she liked and felt safe with, “Vida” – which is my mother-in-law’s name. The real Vida and my mom were never close because they lived 3000 miles apart. But I like to think that it was my mother’s small way of showing that she knew I was on the opposite coast, held warmly by my M-i-L — or something like that.
Anyway, lovely essay, as usual, Nancy. I’m always happy when I see your new posts in my email inbox and save them to read when I take a work break – a little reward.
Lovely piece, Nancy. We should all have a Marge or two in our lives.