October 3, 2007
Is your story in the words?
“Have you visited your father recently?”
“No,” I said.
“You really should get over there and see him. He’s not doing very well. The doctor’s not giving him very much to be optimistic about.”
Is your story in the words?
“Have you visited your father recently?”
“No,” I said.
“You really should get over there and see him. He’s not doing very well. The doctor’s not giving him very much to be optimistic about.”
”Ah. I see. Okay.”
Then we talked of other things. She said, “John Roberts came by the other day. He asked me if I was done with school yet. I told him I had finished three years. He told me he was looking for teachers and he’d give me the books, I could look at them, and decide whether or not I wanted to take over the class for two weeks. Substituting, you know? I’m nervous about it. I’m not sure if I’m ready for it.”
“What grade would you teach?” I asked.
“There was an elementary class and a high school class available. I think I’d like to teach high school.”
“Why high school?”
“I don’t know. Nicer, I guess.”
“They’re more independent?”
“Mmmm, maybe.”
And later, she said, “My sister visited yesterday?”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Still lights up a room. She’s always been that way.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that. When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
Or is your story between the lines?
“Have you visited your father recently?” I leaned back in the chair. Dad died five years ago this month. He had cancer.
“No,” I said.
“You really should get over there and see him. He’s not doing very well. The doctor’s not giving him very much to be optimistic about.”
”Ah. I see. Okay.”
Then we talked of other things. She said, “John Roberts came by the other day. He asked me if I was done with school yet. I told him I had finished three years. He told me he was looking for teachers and he’d give me the books, I could look at them, and decide whether or not I wanted to take over the class for two weeks. Substituting, you know? I’m nervous about it. I’m not sure if I’m ready for it.”
Interesting, I thought. My mother never went to college. She wanted to, but her father got ill and they just couldn’t afford it. She was born in 1927. She spent years working as a secretary at an elementary school. She’s now eighty years old.
“What grade would you teach?” I asked.
“There was an elementary class and a high school class available. I think I’d like to teach high school.”
“Why high school?”
“I don’t know. Nicer, I guess.”
“They’re more independent?”
“Mmmm, maybe.”
And later, she said, “My sister visited yesterday?”
“Oh?” Mom had two sisters. One died at the age of ten from a brain tumor. But I’m sure she’s talking about Rosemary, my aunt, the one who passed away from a massive stroke in June.
“Yeah. Still lights up a room. She’s always been that way.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that. When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
I had this conversation with my mother yesterday (Tuesday) at the dementia unit at the nursing home where she lives.
Have you ever wondered if your memories are true? Have you ever wondered if, as a novelist, some day the memories you have will be fabrications from your books? Or books you’ve read?
Best,
Mark Terry
Mark Terry
11 comments:
Mark~
The line between reality and fiction is not clear at all, is it? We live our lives and that living includes writing so our living is in our writing. Like trying to divide ice from snow.
Give your mother a kiss for me.
Mark #2
A very moving post, Mark, especially for anyone who has sat by helplessly as a loved one lost touch with reality. There is a kind of fascination with what remains.... My theory is that, if we live long enough, we become our essence. Traces of our passions do survive, perhaps especially our unfulfilled passions.
During the last seven years of her life, my mother forgot who I was or that she'd even had a daughter but spoke often of my brother, who long before had moved far away. Initially I was offended; then I decided that she was preoccupied by the vacuum he had left in her life. My aunt--a livewire even in the dementia unit--eagerly looked forward to martinis at happy hour and planned to move closer to the mall for more convenient shopping....
Your post touched my heart. I often wonder where my ideas come from. Did I make them up or did I take them from different pieces of my memories. Give your mom a kiss from me, too.
Thanks guys. Increasingly the last year or so what she talks about has moved from the realm of probably-did-happen to what-fantasy-is this. Very odd. Entertaining in its own uniquely stressful way.
Last night I saw a presentation by Judith Barrington on writing the memoir at the Willamette Writers meeting here in town. She spoke on the nature of memory, particularly how the way we remember our personal history changes based on who we who are. Research has shown that we actually re-transcribe our memories each time we recall them, reshaping them according to who we've become.
One comment she made which was very interesting and also troubling was that she no longer directly remembered the events she wrote about in her memoir. She only remembered them as she'd written them. The act of writing down the events had created a kind of wall in her memory beyond which she couldn't see.
Soul-churning stuff. Thanks for sharing this, Mark. Very powerful.
Extremely touching post, Mark. And very brave of you to share this with us.
Hugs to you and your mother.
This posting makes me wonder ... when I'm older and possibily in a similar situation, will my memories be what actually did happen to me during my life, or will my personal memories somehow merge with what I've written to where I cannot tell the difference.
*Hugs* about your mother.
About your question, memories are strange things. I remember reading somewhere that a good percentage of our memories are false.
Yikes. I don't remember where. Or what percentage. Maybe that's a false memory ...
Mark,
I know just how you feel; we visit my husband's mother in a different Alzheimer's facility. She used to tell us all sorts of things about her family--her brothers and her, when they were children. She didn't seem to remember much beyond that, except the name of her husband, but she couldn't always remember why he was so important. Her children and grandchildren she did not remember at all.
And now, sadly, she doesn't talk anymore. I don't think she'll live past this year.
I think I've read Waiting for Godot for too many years, but the existentialists pose the question: If we don't remember it, did it really happen? Or did it have any value?
Of course we say yes, our lives have value, even the parts we can't remember or remember falsely. But I have my days where I think otherwise . . . I call those my Camus and Beckett days. :)
Mark, your post stayed with me all day, and in fact I mentioned it to my father when I visited him at his assisted living apartment at dinner time. We reminisced about my mom's and my aunt's and also his father's loss of coherence and memory.
Though extremely frail and dependent on portable oxygen, my father, I'm happy to report, is still clear-headed and cheerful at age 95! Thinking of your situation, Mark, I send hugs not only to your mother but also to you. Giving care to the elderly and watching them decline is an experience we are never fully prepared for. It is so hard, and yet our parents keep on giving us gifts all the way to the end. My best to you.
Mark,
As you know, my own mother died just two weeks ago . . . of the complicating effects of Alzheimers. Besides having the bluest eyes God ever made, she was known for her sassy wit. I think the hardest thing was to see her stop laughing. Treasure your mother's smiles--and never stop hoping that most of her memories are happy ones. Even if fictional.
My mother always wanted to write a book of her own, and I know she would have been thrilled by mine. I was a bit too late, but did get to hand my first book to her. She read the dedication (which was to her) aloud to me, though she didn't seem to understand it. But it still felt good, and it made me cry.
Give your Mom a kiss for me, too.
Candy
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