When we first knew about my mother’s illness, I remember sitting in the car with my husband one day. We were parked in the driveway, and he was about to back up. I said, “I wish she would just die.” He stopped backing up and looked at me. “You don’t really mean it,” he said. “Yes, I do mean it. I wish she would die now, rather than have to go through this.” I hesitated. “I don’t want to go through it either,” I whispered.
My mom was so intelligent. She was precise. Very precise.
When I was ten: “If someone asks, ‘Who is it?’ you should answer ‘It is I,’ not ‘It’s me.'” I thought to myself, that just sounds weird. But I remembered.
When I was a teenager, she hooked me on crossword puzzles, and I added “epee,” “aerie,” and “alee” to my vocabulary.
When I was a young adult, we’d play marathon Scrabble games, and she decided we should use nine letters instead of seven, because we could make better words with nine letters.
When I was newly married, I researched her genealogy, tracing her mother’s line back to King Alfred the Great. This prompted us to start spending Saturdays traipsing around old cemeteries in Kent County, finding Stones and Wightmans and matching them to the names in the family tree.
A few years before dementia invaded her mind and robbed her of reason and memory, she stated, “It’s not correct to say ‘I feel nauseous.’ You should say ‘I feel nauseated.’ Did you know that?” My husband just shook his head and smiled. Joyce strikes again.
Years after she lost the ability to speak, or to recognize my sisters and me, my mother died at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning. My wristwatch stopped ticking at the same time.
The day after we laid her to rest, my husband took me to Newport. We ate lunch at the Red Parrot and sat by the water, watching the endless cycle of waves: rush in, hurry back out. She’d been lost to us for years; still, the finality of losing both parents was inescapable.
On the drive home, my husband turned on the radio. We were hoping to catch the news on the hour, but had to listen to a few minutes of a talk show first. The caller on the air was upset about whatever situation was the topic of the show, I guess. “You know, Dan, I’m just nauseated over it.”
I turned to my husband, who was grinning, too. “Joyce!” we cried in unison. She’d have been pleased to hear he got it right.