November 4, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: Darling

It is becoming more difficult to determine when it is best to call my more-than-106-year-old mother.

Time is having its inevitable way with her. She is losing vitality and spends more time than in the past resting and napping. So for me to establish a calling routine--she very much likes routines and rituals--is not working well.

Six months ago a good time to call was 12:30, after she had had her lunch. But now, even lunch is losing appeal. She is eating less and less with diminished interest. At times she doesn't rouse herself for it, sleeping until mid-afternoon; and so if I call at 12:30, it is more than likely she will not be available.

I try later in the day--3:00 sometimes works. Most days she goes down for a very early dinner, leaving her apartment at 3:30 precisely. Generally, that routine remains. But calling then can find her resting or not up to talking. I then try to reach her at 5:30 or 6:00 when she is back in her apartment, preparing for bed. On occasion, she is in bed before 6:00 and so my daily call is more frequently becoming an every-other-day occurrence.

Early last week I did reach her at the old familiar time--12:30.

Her aide told me she had a good lunch and wanted to speak with me. My mother, she informed me, in fact was eagerly waiting for my call.

Optimistic, I asked, "How are you today, Mom?"

"Doing the best I can," which is what she always says--true or not--to relieve me of any need to feel anxious and to let me know she is still not needing any more help or concern. Another example of her continuing, lifelong generosity and pride.

"You sound good to me," I said as cheerfully as possible.

"I am, darling." She sounded on the phone as if she were smiling.

"I'm so happy to hear that."

"And how are you?"

"I'm fine. Doing well. The weather is still nice and--"

She cut me off. "I love you darling," she whispered, and abruptly hung up.

I felt a wave of concern. This sounded so final, so conclusive. Would this be the last time I would speak with her? Was she signally something changed about her condition? Something dire she was intuiting?

As it turned out it wasn't the end or even the seeming-beginning of it. I spoke with her two days later--at 5:30--and she sounded even a little better.

"You do not need to worry about me, darling," she again reassured me.

"You know I will," I confessed. "That's the way I am. We are." We are a worrisome people.

Later that evening, over dinner with Rona, I told her about the most recent calls.

"Isn't it wonderful," Rona said, "to be your age and not only to still have a mother, but for her to call you darling. How I . . ."

Overcome with emotion, she couldn't continue.