March 4, 2015--Ladies of Forest Trace: Laughter

From the publisher I have a copy of what the cover will look like of my soon to be published book, Obama, Oy Vey: The Wit and Wisdom of My 107-Year-Old Mother. I took it to show her, not sure what she would think.

She was sleeping when I arrived, which is not unusual these days as she is losing vitality and visits are measured more in minutes than even half hours.

I sat beside her bed as still I could manage, not wanting to disturb her but simply to be near. Her breathing was shallow and I was concerned. Was the end near? Was this to be the way it would conclude--that she would just slip away. And would that happen as I sat there?

It was not something to grieve about, I again said to myself. She is after all nearly 107 and is not in any pain or even discomfort. But still. I am of advancing age myself and do not take death as casually as I did when I was younger and it felt more theoretical than real. But now each day it feels closer. Not just her passing but the increasing possibility of my own.

Rescuing me from these thoughts, my mother's eyes opened with a start and a smile as she looked up and saw me sitting there, holding her hand.

"I can't hear you," she said before I had spoken a single word.

"Let me help you with these." Her hearing aides were neatly aligned on the table by her bedside, and as gently as I could I twisted them into her ears.

"That's better," she said, still smiling. "You look wonderful."

I'm not at all sure that's true--though I was trying--but I smiled back at her and said, "You too don't look so bad for someone your age."

"My age?" she panted, allowing the oxygen flowing to her from the cylinder to catch up with her breathing. "There's no one my age any more. And that includes me." With that she laughed. It was the first time in more than month that she did so. An incredible sign of the life force that has sustained her for so long.

"I know you can stay for only a few minutes," she said, again beginning to slip back into sleep. She was still able to make the effort to conceal her new reality--the need to rest and sleep--to keep things feeling normal, as if nothing was different. That she was still herself.

And so after a few minutes, to help maintain that illusion, I let her slip back into sleep, kissed her, and left.

Back home, at about eight o'clock, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said Mom. My heart fluttered. It was well past her evening bedtime and I thought it must be her aide and the news could only be bad.

But chipper and optimistic as she always sounds, Dianne relieved my fear and said, "Your mom wants to talk with you."

"With me? She's awake? Are you sure everything's OK?"

"Yes. She wants to talk with you about your book."

"My book?" I was still amazed that she was awake and had placed the call.

"What wit and wisdom?" my mother asked.

I was confused, forgetting for the moment the subtitle of my book.

"Yours," I finally said.

"The cover I can see," an image of it was all I had left with her.

"I know." I said.

Again she asked, "Whose wisdom?"

"Yours," I repeated.

"Then, why are all the pages blank?"

With that she handed the phone back to Dianne

It was my turn to laugh. What a wonder. My ancient mother was still making jokes.

When, later that night I told a friend about this, Reggie said, "There's nothing more important to living than laughter."