MOM/LOUISE

My Mom and I had an up and down relationship. When I turned 24 and entered therapy, I wanted her out of my life. For years although I visited her on and off, I felt angry about our past relationship together. As she aged and remarried, I began to realize this type of anger was foolish and destructive. She was the mother I had and from that moment, I changed inside trying to make amends by being available at all times as she slipped further into her Lewy Body dementia. It is a disease I had never known existed. It causes a confusion in the person, plus a certain rigidity in the face and posture. She was extremely hard of hearing and despite numerous hearing aids, this was a problem that stayed with her. As her disease developed, she suffered hallucinations and delusions in her thinking processes.
I blew all this off as Mom just being Mom until she called me one Friday night and said Jerry, my stepfather had smoke coming out of his head. By Saturday, my sister and I had Mom set up in a place for a week while intensive tests were run. It still was difficult for me to accept Mom as not only having this disease, but having it for probably seven years before we sought help. I am not proud of this fact, but our relationship had always been strained and uncomfortable despite my efforts to deal with her aging in general. Mom and Jerry lived five hours away from my sister’s house in Lynchburg, Virginia. Twice a month, I would drive from Annapolis to Sharpsburg on Friday night, then five hours to Lynchburg to visit them over the weekend. We cleaned their place, helped them buy groceries, tried to help them in general as my mother and stepfather aged. My mother had fired a cleaning lady saying she was stealing things. This was a woman that had come in for years. Mom had wanted to leave Lynchburg for years and live nearer to us. Eventually we were able to move them up to the Hagerstown area where my sister Kathy lived.
Lately, as I am aging, I think about my mother more as a person in her own right named Louise. She was born Louise Schmitt (no middle name) in Brooklyn, New York. Her mother was Irish and her father was German. She had two sisters and one brother. One brother died at age 2–1/2 years old and was buried on the day my Uncle Johnny was born.
Mom told me she was shy and I know she was an introvert. Perceived criticism of any type rendered her in tears. Her parents did not believe in dating and she was kept away from normal avenues of meeting boys. At age 21, the belt on her coat got caught in the seat of a bus and my father helped her pull it out. From that point, they dated for a year. Her parents disliked him then and forever after. My father had a Virginia accent. He was a talker, an extreme extravert, handsome and worst of all a drinker. He was in the military with no real skills and was being discharged. On November 30, 1940, they were married. I was born nine months and five days later. Her family was angry, but happy to have a first grandchild. My mother had no real friends other than her family and my father. She had me. She was a sad, sad woman. I think more and more how alone she was.
My Uncle Johnny and my Aunt Catherine argued a great deal. They lived in separate apartments in a building over a drug store. In later years, they bought the building. Aunt Catherine was married to Uncle Bill and Uncle Johnny lived with my grandmother, who was dependent on him to keep things going for them. It was a typical blue collar family of the 1940s.
Mom and Dad moved something like 14 times by the time I turned nine years old. I have no real memory of any of this, but my memories of New York are dimmed by time and too much pain as their marriage floundered. I do know my father couldn’t hold a job of any kind for any period of time. At one point, Dad brought home Good Humor ice cream bars packed in dry ice, which fascinated me as when the package was opened, the bars looked like though they were smoking. I know we lived eventually in a four-apartment complex owned by my Uncle Paddy, who was originally from Ireland. We had the downstairs apartment that was modeled in a typical railroad style apartment. In my mind’s eye, I can see the tiny bedroom my sister and I shared. She was born almost 7–1/2 years after me. Our bedroom was meant to be a tiny dining room space if anything, but Mom managed to jam a crib in one corner and I had an Army cot I slept in. My New York relatives did not visit us ever, but it didn’t matter. We walked over to their house every day. My Aunt Mary and Uncle George lived about a mile from my grandmother’s place. I think we saw everyone most of the time.
I think how devastating it had to be when Louise (I think of her this way so I can see a person outside of Mom) made a decision to move down south with my father. Our finances must have been growing worse as I remember being hungry as a kid at times, but Mom would not let her parents know what was going on. At one point, we both were sick with pneumonia and my father had taken off and rejoined the military. Mom contacted the Red Cross asking that he be released because we had nothing at all. I was told never to tell what went on in our house despite Nana’s questioning me over the years. I had a black eye at one point when I was around seven and I was proud at the time that I didn’t lie to her about how it occurred, but I didn’t answer her either. They all knew the truth. They didn’t understand why my mother stayed with this man, whom Nana described as always crying crocodile tears.
From this vantage point as I look back, I see how hard it was for Louise to move away. Dad’s brother, Uncle King, had brought his father’s family house built in 1900 and we moved in. I was happier than I have ever been. I loved Charlottesville, Virginia. It was a small town then. UVA was separate from the town. There was so much grass and large trees. My neighbors next door had a real swing on a tree. When you are from Brooklyn, New York, this is something akin to moving from Singapore to Oregon.
Louise had no one. We couldn’t afford a phone; we didn’t have a car; we didn’t have TV. Mom had a small child at home. Kathy was only a year and a half and I was in the 4th grade at nine years old. My father worked for his brother in Uncle King’s printing company. At last he stayed employed for the moment.
I came home from school to find Louise crying. She walked uptown every day. She tried to make friends, but people kept to themselves. Her strong Brooklyn accent was made fun of by Dad’s relatives. Louise didn’t know how to stand up for herself.
When I was about 11, Louise began having dizzy spells. She fell down several times while carrying groceries. She had to be extremely scared. Eventually as it grew worse, she contacted a specialist. She was diagnosed with Meniere’s disease. In those days, this was surgically treated, but it was a new type of surgery. She came home 14 days after having this done, with her hair chopped off and partial loss of hearing in one ear. She seemed more frightened then ever. My father’s drinking had escaladed as he was now exhibiting behavior that was more violent in nature. Screaming, yelling and mentally abusing Louise.
Looking back and fast forwarding, my mother got her first real job at a drug store in town. I was 14 years old and I believe from that point forward, she developed into a more independent person. The more she matured, the more my father went downhill. When she remarried at 50 years old, she seemed at peace and more happy than all the years before. I was glad for her. I do think giving up her job at UVA Hospital was a mistake, because apart from her work, she didn’t have the ability to interact with people socially as much as she aged. It just wasn’t in her genetic make up. She was excellent in the jobs she held if she could avoid any issues.
I was proud of Mom for going to therapy at 75 years old. After going about three months or so, she told me she discovered the problem was me so she decided to quit. I think she and the German therapist discussed her relationship with her own mother and it made her uncomfortable. I admire her for doing it at all. I tried going to church with her occasionally when I visited. Mom liked showing people there she not only had this attractive husband, but two daughters.
My mother was a product of her time and culture. She stayed married until she died at age 85. She loved Jerry deeply and I was glad she had married a good man. She loved her grandchildren. She did not spend time with them alone. One time Kathy and I sent our children, Jennifer and Adam (age five at the time) for three weeks to stay with Jerry and Mom. We had no other place at the time until school started and she reluctantly agreed. Afterward, she said never again. Louise said it was too much for both of them and that might well be true. If you are not used to young children, it is tough.
Today would have been her birthday. She has been on my mind all day long as the person Louise, who had a few close friends for years from working, but along the way lost touch with them. I wish she could have been okay mentally and physically and seen the grandchildren grow up. My granddaughter, Lizzie says she remembers her. Mom was deteriorating mentally when my other grandchildren were born.
We now know friendships are important. We need to reach out to other people along this journey called Life. Even introverts need to socialize occasionally.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
