One Mother’s Journey through community living

Candy Puterbaugh

50plus Magazine

 

Mention of the word “mother” elicits emotions that run the gamut around the globe. As a child, I remember my selfish question to her on Mother’s Day: “When is children’s day?” Her response was, “Every day is children’s day!” With her as my mother, it was. She taught me to share stories worth telling — here is hers.

 

My mother Helen tapped into her talent at age six on a kitchen table in Juneau, Alaska. There she pretended to play the piano until her Norwegian parents bought her a real one. From then on, music filled the cozy home built by her father. Little Helen’s fingers took to the keys like old friends, and her parents realized she was a prodigy. As a young girl, Helen played for the silent movies in Juneau and learned the organ to play for church services.

 

She had big dreams, but like old sheet music, her musical plans were shelved. In an essay for English class at age 12, she wrote that she hoped to attend “musical college either in Idaho or in Massachusetts to study music. Then if I have enough money I would like to go to Europe to some great musician and study under his direction… to know how to play or give concerts.”

 

But when she was 19, stomach cancer carried her quiet and kind father, Olaf, to an upstairs bedroom where his wife and three daughters cared for him until he died. Helen remained home to help her capable mother cope by taking in boarders.

 

A few years later, she married my father and moved to Portland. Her baby grand piano was always a part of their family of four daughters. She played throughout her busy life — mostly during holiday family gatherings. Her daughters also studied piano but didn’t have their mother’s talent.

 

The baby grand moved with the family to a 40-acre farm when my father retired from medicine in the ‘70s. He and my mother wanted to give their grandchildren fresh country air. Nine lucky grandkids learned about cows, tractors and the nursery business. Twenty of my mother’s favorite years were spent on that farm until my father’s health forced a move back to the city, to a quiet manor bordered by beautiful English gardens. My dad passed away soon after the move. Mom was 76.

 

Five years later, we began to see small changes. Uncharacteristically, calls sometimes went unreturned. Her comfort driving a car waned, then stopped. She forgot to turn off the stove. It was time to make some changes.

 

She was close to all her daughters, and we all wanted to do our best for her. She seemed to sail through life’s hard knocks without a whimper, never thinking of herself. She didn’t even wear makeup… or sunscreen! Kind-hearted, giving, even-keeled, fun and humble — she never drew attention to her tremendous talent. She had the innocence of a child and appreciated everything we did for her. Now, in addition to Meals on Wheels, she needed us to get by — for visits, walks, scenic drives, dinners at our homes, errands, showering. We gladly pitched in.

 

“I don’t feel comfortable living on my own anymore,” she told us one day.

 

After visiting assisted-care homes, we found one that fit her down-to-earth nature just a few miles away. We were prepared for a hard transition, but as was her way, she made it easy. One mistake we made was moving her belongings while she watched. She didn’t want to part with anything.

 

But she thrived in her new “home” — a cozy room with a view. She made friends easily, spent time in the living area, participated in activities, attended meals, and even played bingo!

 

And still she played piano — for her fellow residents. While her memory was fading, she could conjure myriad songs by memory. Her talent and spark were alive and well. She smiled and laughed her way through four happy years there.

 

When we visited, she beamed proudly, “That’s my daughter!” A party celebrating her 90th birthday was attended by many residents. Her daughters took her for walks around the grounds and visits at our homes. As her mind and world narrowed, we found activities she could do, like folding clothes on a comfy couch while sipping tea. She even walked stairs with me to keep her legs strong. “Use it or lose it!” my physician husband chimed in.

 

Eventually congestive heart failure called for greater care. We moved mom to a bright, cheery Romanian-run foster care home. There she thrived, with four other residents, many visitors, a cozy room, home-cooked food and walks in her wheelchair on sunny days.

 

As her world waned, her eyes losing their brightness, her fingers could still find the keys to play her favorite ragtime music.

 

Christmas Eve, her family surrounded her bed, singing carols to lull her with the language she loved.

 

Three days later she left us, but her music will play on in my heart forever.