December 19, 1972
My sister and I have been rereading Mother's letters and were were particularly moved by one she wrote to Janeth in 1964 after attending Aunt
Ruth's funeral. "I am more than ever of the opinion that funerals,
except for the truly great, are out‑moded ostentation bordering on the
barbaric. I want nothing at all -‑ no flowers‑‑no display of my
hideous old overcoat ‑- nothing but a prayer from the family, and that
inaudibly.
"Of
course, if darling Dick feels hurt by this, I'm willing for him to
pray aloud, but only to the family. No friends,
nothing. I will not be there. Either I will be extinct or
"on my way." I truly believe in the latter idea due to
certain past experiences which (to me) furnish proof of further
progress. Whichever fate it is I still want only a thought now and then in
some loved one's heart."
That
you have in full measure, darling Mother.
January 5, 2006
I woke up early this morning and began thinking of Mom and how much I agreed with her sentiments on funerals. By eerie coincidence, I received in the afternoon's mail a resistible offer to pay in advance for my funeral, for which, I was warned, Social Security would come up with only a few hundred dollars. I could spare my family the enormous expense involved by investing in the plan described in the letter. Hmph, I said to myself, my plan is better.
Donate my remains if there are any usable parts in an 85-year-old Mummy; then cremate what's left. No funeral home, none of the somber organ music that is invariably inflicted on us at church services. I don't want somber, I want funny, like the memorial service Kenneth Manley had for Maggie.
What would make people laugh? Jack's story about falling on top of the woman on the train. The Golfoholic essay in which I tried to make Darrell McClure understand the addiction. The essay, "Getting Your Mug (And Your Self-Esteem) Shot at the Registry." My blog post, "Mishap While Painting a Dahlia." Poignant would also be suitable, as in the game my granddaughter invented, inspiring me to write "Sarah's Game." For background music, Kathie and Frank’s “Puccini Without Words.”
Mommy, Mommy, let's pretend
That I am in the wheeling chair,
And while I'm wheeling, you can stand
Or walk or run or climb a stair.
Mommy, see me turn the
wheels?
Her chubby arms propel the air:
Sarah's testing how it feels
To navigate a wheeling chair.
You may push me, Mommy, now,
Down the hall and to my room,
Just as sometimes I push you ‑‑
Faster, faster . . . vrooom, vrooom!
When Daddy opens up the door
I'll wheel to him across the floor.
Oh,
won't he be surprised to see
That I am you and you are me!
When I grow up, perhaps I too
When I grow up, perhaps I too
Can have a wheeling chair like you . . .
Mommy,
aren't we having fun?
Indeed we are, my precious one!
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| PRE-SCHOOL GRADUATION DAY |
Final resting place for my ashes? I can see it at this moment from my study window. Beyond the tennis courts, to the far point where there is a small dock for fishing, the Back River beckons and the view that has meant so much to me. I considered going to the office and asking Wendy if there would be any rule against my family gathering on the dock for a brief ceremony. Then I thought no, there would probably have to be a meeting of the Weymouthport board of directors, and a very private wish would become very public. Let them just do it. Frank or anyone else who cared to say a few words for the benefit of my soul could say them.
May all my trespasses be forgiven, especially by dear #1 son Ted, who rarely found my raunchy sense of humor the least bit funny.
Update: Ted called me a few days before he died on February 27, 2017 of Lou Gehrig's Disease and told me at length what a good mother I'd been. I kept exclaiming thank you, Ted! not knowing he was fatally ill, having been protected from this terrible news by Tim and the rest of the family.
May all my trespasses be forgiven, especially by dear #1 son Ted, who rarely found my raunchy sense of humor the least bit funny.
Update: Ted called me a few days before he died on February 27, 2017 of Lou Gehrig's Disease and told me at length what a good mother I'd been. I kept exclaiming thank you, Ted! not knowing he was fatally ill, having been protected from this terrible news by Tim and the rest of the family.
March 22, 2012
My chief physical problem is the severe backache I get when I stand in the kitchen, preparing a meal. I lean on the counter for relief and think of the exit I have available if life ever gets too unbearable. Kathie understands how I feel about spending my last months or years in a nursing home, joining the unfortunate women hunched over in their wheelchairs. If I were faced with this at 90 plus, I wouldn’t hesitate to write loving farewells to my children, take from the linen closet a waterproof sheet I’ve long had for the purpose, put on a couple of pull-ups, and take the overdose in a dish of applesauce. The waterproof sheet and pull-ups are a necessity because I've learned why books commonly refer to the terrible odor when dead bodies are encountered. [Passage from current reading, The English Patient, pages 84, 85, nurse speaking: "I know death now, David. I know all the smells. I know how to divert them. When to give the quick jolt of morphine in a major vein to make them empty their bowels."]
From thoughts re life's end to the foolish pleasure I indulge in every day at five: I get my supper ready, put it on my walker’s tray, and watch “Deal or No Deal” on The Game Show Network. It's light and funny, and the suspense that builds up is exhilarating.
Speaking of walkers, I had a tumble with mine a few weeks ago. Ordinarily, I don’t use it except for meals, but the tray was carrying a heavy bag of books I wanted to donate to my condo's library. I wheeled down to Lower Parking and was heading toward the entrance leading to the function room when the walker hit a slight ledge on the concrete, and the bag started to slip off.
Speaking of walkers, I had a tumble with mine a few weeks ago. Ordinarily, I don’t use it except for meals, but the tray was carrying a heavy bag of books I wanted to donate to my condo's library. I wheeled down to Lower Parking and was heading toward the entrance leading to the function room when the walker hit a slight ledge on the concrete, and the bag started to slip off.
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| THE BABY IN 1947 -- SANDY COVE IN BACKGROUND |
A man nearby helped me up and collected the scattered books. I knew I hadn’t broken anything but didn’t realize I had torn open the skin below my knee until I undressed that night. The next morning I drove to Cohasset Family Health, where the doctor on duty pulled the wound's edges together and sealed them with narrow strips of tape. You can't put stitches in such fragile, ancient skin. "Thanks a lot for the DNA, Mom," says 66-year-old, Timmy, the baby in the family.
O the joys of the Golden Years, I sing along with other aging folks out there. It Could Be Worse, as my ex used to sing after cruel Mr. Parkinson kicked him down.
P. S. A grateful goodbye to Margie W. and Paige C., faithful followers of
http://tearsandlaughterat90.blogspot.com and to all the other visitors from this country and abroad. Your approval makes this nonagenarian feel like the most fortunate old girl on the planet.
May 8, 2013
I would like to remind everyone to check out on Mondays and Thursdays the updates on Kathie's vitally important blog: http://engagingpeace.com.
December 15, 2013
My vision has become steadily worse since last spring. My editor Edward Brecher chose to end his life when this happened to him. I am close to making the same decision. Since I moved from Weymouthport to Linden Ponds in Hingham, I'm sure I must be legally blind. My family doesn't want to accept this diagnosis. An appointment has been made in January for an assessment by a specialist. My hopes are nil.
April 7, 2014
I can now read print as small as this. There was an unfortunate side effect, however. My weaker eye is turning inward as it did when I was a child and had surgery to correct it. I won't resort to surgery, having been told it would have to be on my one good eye because of scar tissue on the other one and maybe I could find a doctor in China who would be willing to do it. I'll settle for having the tint in my glasses made deeper so I won't scare the great-grandchildren.
April 10, 2014
P. S. A grateful goodbye to Margie W. and Paige C., faithful followers of
http://tearsandlaughterat90.blogspot.com and to all the other visitors from this country and abroad. Your approval makes this nonagenarian feel like the most fortunate old girl on the planet.
May 8, 2013
I would like to remind everyone to check out on Mondays and Thursdays the updates on Kathie's vitally important blog: http://engagingpeace.com.
December 15, 2013
My vision has become steadily worse since last spring. My editor Edward Brecher chose to end his life when this happened to him. I am close to making the same decision. Since I moved from Weymouthport to Linden Ponds in Hingham, I'm sure I must be legally blind. My family doesn't want to accept this diagnosis. An appointment has been made in January for an assessment by a specialist. My hopes are nil.
April 7, 2014
I can now read print as small as this. There was an unfortunate side effect, however. My weaker eye is turning inward as it did when I was a child and had surgery to correct it. I won't resort to surgery, having been told it would have to be on my one good eye because of scar tissue on the other one and maybe I could find a doctor in China who would be willing to do it. I'll settle for having the tint in my glasses made deeper so I won't scare the great-grandchildren.
April 10, 2014
To Kathie
I'm going to bring my reading glasses in slacks pocket tomorrow, hoping to remember to give them to Frank for getting them tinted a bit darker. I think any optometrist could do that. See you soon.
Your cross-eyed but not too cross,
Mom
XXXOOO
February 3, 2017
A loving farewell to Linden Ponds angel Diane, who restored my will to live a while longer, welcoming me on weekdays to the cafe with a hug and insisting I was gorgeous. Weekends without
my Diane fix are a bore, but there's always Monday . . . .
I'm going to bring my reading glasses in slacks pocket tomorrow, hoping to remember to give them to Frank for getting them tinted a bit darker. I think any optometrist could do that. See you soon.
Your cross-eyed but not too cross,
Mom
XXXOOO
February 3, 2017
A loving farewell to Linden Ponds angel Diane, who restored my will to live a while longer, welcoming me on weekdays to the cafe with a hug and insisting I was gorgeous. Weekends without
my Diane fix are a bore, but there's always Monday . . . .
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