Walking Mom Home

The Music of Her Life

It’s been nine years since my mom passed from this earth into the glories of heaven. She was an amazing woman who loved to sing and had a smile to remember. Saying good-bye is never easy. What follows is a brief account of my mom in her last few months of life, as dementia took its toll, but more than that, a story of the way music bound our hearts together and left a legacy of memories. I have taken a few liberties with the dialogue for the sake of narrative, but I hope I convey to you the heart of our final night together.

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Walking Mom Home

“Well, look who’s here. You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

I walked into my mom’s room, as I have every week for the last year. Without fail, she greets me with these same words.

“Hi Mom, how are you doing today?” I ask.

She peers at me, a question mark in her eye.

“Now, who are you again?” she asks for the umpteenth time. “You look familiar, but I’m not so good with names anymore.”

“I’m Debi”, I reply. I used to add, “your daughter”.

Lately, that throws Mom off, so now I say, “your friend” and that seems to suit her.

She surprised me last month after our usual greeting. “You know”, she said, “you look a lot like my youngest daughter, but she’s much younger than you.”

I thank her for the compliment and don’t try to correct her. I’ve learned that correcting a person with Alzheimer’s is an exercise in futility and frustration. For the sake of peace, I’ve decided I can live with this.

There is something about the way her face lights up each time I walk into her room, a tiny spark of recognition brightening her eyes. Somewhere, locked in the recesses of her aging brain, I think she suspects we might be more than just friends.

After the small talk fades, I ask if she would like to look at the photo album she keeps by her chair.

“That sounds like fun”, she replies. I pull my chair close, and we page slowly through the scrapbook I made filled with pictures of her as a little girl growing up in Yakima, Washington.

I point out a picture of her at age 12, holding a gigantic clump of grapes. “I bet there is a story behind this picture.”

“There sure is”, she replies with excitement. Then off she goes, telling me the same story she told me last week, and the week before, and for as long as I can remember.

I could roll my eyes and think, not again. But this is my mom and I love her. It makes her happy to tell me about an adventure she does remember. I suspect it is highly embellished, but at her age, she has earned the right to tell the story however she chooses to remember it.

I nod as she talks, and laugh when she laughs, and our friendship; our love, floats to the surface again, so tangible that I ache to remind her I am her daughter.

Instead, I smile as she begins the story again. I know the telling brings her joy, and my joy comes in listening to her remember.

Another day, I’ll pull out the picture of Mom, on the stage of the Capitol Theatre in Yakima, smiling her megawatt smile, holding a brace of pistols in front of a jailhouse door. My mom loved to sing and dance. In our home, it was a rare day that she didn’t have the radio or the stereo playing.

We grew up to the tunes of “The Brother’s Four”, “Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass” and Musicals such as “Carousel”, “My Fair Lady” and “The Sound of Music”. These tunes echo in my memory still.

When Mom began to fail, her voice grew weak and soon faded away into garbled words. I found music soothed her agitation. I made a mixtape of songs that she loved, with hymns blending into show tunes, and always, the dulcet tones of “The Brothers Four” singing, “Try to Remember”.

One evening, I got the call: “Come”.

I sped up Scenic Road, wondering what the night held. Mom was sleeping when I arrived. They had moved her into a room close to the kitchen. I smoothed her thick crown of snow-white hair as she slept and thought of the times my head had rested in her lap, and her fingers combed through my locks.

I settled into a recliner near her bed, and listened to the music of her life, of my childhood, as the memories flooded in. Tears glazed my cheeks - so many happy moments I had shared with my mom. I tried to sleep, but each time she grew restless or her breathing slowed, I rushed to her side. I couldn’t bear to see her leave this world alone.

I knew what lay ahead. For her it was glorious, for Mom belonged to Jesus, but through that long night, I felt my heart shatter into tiny bits with each tick of the clock. By midnight, I was spent. The caregiver made up a daybed for me just outside mom’s door.

I dozed fitfully, until exhaustion won and I slept. At 3 a.m., I woke. The air seemed close and thick. I heard mom panting, as her tape played, “I Could Have Danced All Night.” I imagined her breathless from dancing in her dreams. She was in distress, and I ran to get help.

Another dose of morphine calmed her galloping heart, and she quieted again. For hours I stayed by her side, stroking her hair, whispering, “I love you, I’ll be okay, you can go.”

I wondered what she was seeing when one of her favorite songs, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” began to play.

When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark
At the end of a storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark

Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
For your dreams be tossed and blown . . .

As I stood at her bedside, her music brought me a measure of peace.

Dawn came and still she lingered. I did not know how much time she had left and raced home for a quick breakfast.

Forty minutes later, I returned. The caregiver met me at the door, extended her arms in a hug, and said, “Five minutes after you left, she was gone.”

It was just like Mom, to wait for me to leave, to spare her “Debs” from witnessing her last breath. I thought of those many days she repeated the stories of her life and was grateful that I listened.

Mom would never walk alone again, for now she walked with Jesus.

“Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone."

You'll never walk alone.”

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Lyrics to “You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Oscar Hammerstein II & Richard Rodgers