HOLDING MOM AND MENDELSSOHN

I think I will always remember this warmth that emanates from her tissue-thin and freckled skin. I feel as if we are transferring bits of each other; that she is taking from me that part of myself that will accompany her when she moves from life to death.

It is the summer of 2005. The air is smog-free… clear and beautiful. It is 1:30 pm. I am sitting in a chair next to her bed in the ICU at Mt. Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. The radio is tuned to her favorite classical music station, 105.1 It is known as K-Mozart in Radio Land. I face her and my right arm nestles alongside hers. Weeks ago I flew to my mother’s bedside from my home in San Francisco.

I ramble to myself. What is the source of our connection to each other? Am I too dependent on her? Does she help me too much? Do I want to be more like her than like myself?

She might never be the source of answers to these recurring questions. My mother’s dementia has left her speechless. We are here at the hospital where she was recently admitted with oxygen levels in the danger zone. My brother, visiting from New Hampshire, reiterates that our mother would not want to be kept alive in a vegetative state. "It would be great if she could come home, but only if she has some chance for a normal life," he says, in a steady, reassuring voice reminiscent of my father.

For me, the problem is that my mother's life will never again be normal. The dementia will progress and she will eventually die, no matter what kind of care she receives.

***

My brother, sister, and I first met with her neurologist, Dr. Cohen, on a Monday afternoon in April, 2004.

His office on West 3rd Street is part of the Cedars Sinai Medical Center complex and in close proximity to the set of offices where my father, a cardiologist, had practiced. Like Dad, Dr. Cohen is Jewish and Canada-born. This similarity was momentarily comforting, though my anxiety increased as we rode the elevator to his office in one of the tall towers flanking the hospital. This was our first meeting with Dr. Cohen and I feared he would confirm the worst.

Mezuzahs graced the doorpost of each examining room. His standard white, lab coat and male pattern baldness characterized him as another one of a multitude of Jewish physicians with successful medical practices on the west side of Los Angeles. I fantasized that Mom's doctor was also a rabbi or perhaps a messenger of the Messiah. He surely possessed the power to prolong her life and stave off the worst symptoms of dementia. He ushered us into his office, drew the chairs close, and closed the door. My optimism waned.

"What is the current level of her impairment," Charlie asked.

"Mild to moderate," responded Dr. Cohen. My lungs filled with air and I sighed deeply; my eyes glistened and tears waited expectantly.

"The prognosis is not good. This is a degenerative disease.”

We asked Dr. Cohen what we could expect to see in the future. It was not a short list: subtle personality changes, impairment of language skills, spatial problems, inability to retain information, diminished visual memory, thought derailment, and possible depression. I stared out the window, looking at the blue, cloudless sky for comfort. I would turn 53 within a few weeks and I did not want a depressed mother with derailed thoughts and no visual memory. I needed her.

***

For as long as I can remember, Mom and I methodically reviewed the contents of my closet at the start of each new fashion season. I would try on every piece of clothing and we would decide what to keep and what to give away. Mom appreciated good design and never bought anything that was not elegant or flattering to her carefully managed figure.

I was never skinny, and at times I envied my sister who took after my mother and was encouraged to have a milkshake while I drank diet soda. I was happy, however, that I had inherited my mother's shapely legs, with their toned calves and slim ankles. They were featured in the Michigan Daily, the student newspaper of her alma mater, as well as in hosiery ads when she was in her twenties. I was impressed by how good she looked in the family photo album, sitting cross-legged on the hood of "Joe," my father's 1945, black Plymouth. A beautiful set of gams!

I could have predicted that she would encourage me to discard the long, tiered, chiffon animal print skirt that I wore regularly after losing the extra pounds of a nursing mother. Many years before the dementia found her, she was visiting me in San Francisco, sitting on my bed while I modeled for her.

"Oh, honey. Your figure is so lovely now, I don't think you need to keep that one. It reminds me of what you wore in the sixties. Short, slim skirts are much more sophisticated and will show you off."

"I guess so ... but I bought this skirt at the great boutique up the street. I am friendly with the owner; her sister designed the skirt.”

My criteria were clearly different than my mother's. The skirt came with history and a relationship. Mom was practical and if the skirt did not flatter me, there was no reason to keep it. I reluctantly put it in the giveaway box.

Over the years when I visited Mom, I routinely borrowed one of her bathrobes. My favorite was unbelted, pale pink and made of cotton velour. I always felt comfortable and safe in that robe. I felt closer to Mom and it was as if I thought by wearing the robe I could absorb some of her most stellar qualities. I admired her and I also wanted her to protect me.

Eventually, I bought my own bathrobe. It was cashmere, the color of baby aspirin. It was $200, dry cleaning was required and it was so long that the hem dragged on the floor. I loved it.

By this time Mom's dementia had been given a name and her illness was official. At the same time, I changed out of my mother's bathrobe, she changed into sweat pants.

And her array of Ferragamo pumps gave way to black Reeboks.

***

Her tiny, narrow feet were a size 6 ½. Shelves that glided open effortlessly revealed pairs of heels and flats. She preferred black suede or brown leather. I can’t remember when I bought my own pair of Ferragamo. They were black flats. I detoured from my local, hipster shoe store to one of the large, downtown department stores which usually overwhelmed me. I set aside my own preferences to taste my mother. Sold to me by someone more reminiscent of the private shoppers Mom favored at Saks Fifth Avenue on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills.

The salesperson knelt before me as if taking communion in a Catholic church. Here in San Francisco I planned to wear the shoes on the upcoming Jewish high holidays. I don’t recall if I loved the shoes, or the idea that I was inhaling my mother, if only via a pair of expensive Ferragamo. Maybe the shoes would make me more like her. Confident and all-knowing.

A few months later I drove to Yom Kippur morning services at the repurposed church on Franklin Street. I can’t now remember how the pieces fit together. Did I change from the Ferragamo into something soft and laced? Did I accidentally leave the car unlocked? The point is, they were gone. I had only worn them a few times, saving the smooth and spotless leather for special occasions.

***

Eventually, my mother was able to move from the ICU to a private, 6th-floor hospital room with a large corner window. Sunshine warmed the space, illuminating the vase of roses that Norma, her devoted housekeeper, had selected from Mom’s garden.

I clasped her hands tightly, kissed her gently, and discerned a weak smile. I pulled up a chair to sit beside my mother and listen with her to Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor, now playing on the radio station which had been her constant companion since being admitted to the hospital.

I gave her a long hug, sipped my Starbucks, and put in a call to Sandra, my architect. The demolition for my extensive home remodeling project was about to begin. Despite her silence, I kept Mom up to date on the construction schedule, described meetings with the cabinet maker, and how much I was looking forward to finally having an automatic dishwasher.

As I talked with Sandra, I held Mom's hand. Her eyes were closed and she looked relaxed. After my conversation, I replaced the receiver and turned to look at my mother. Her face was tinged with pale purple and grey. In a moment the soft pink nestling of her freckles and age spots had receded. Her hand was cool as if she had forgotten her gloves. Had someone turned up the air conditioner?

I immediately looked at the bedside monitor and recognized that her heart was slowing down while mine was beating rapidly, charged with fear and panic. “Mom, are you all right? Wake up Mom ... Oh God ... no ... someone help us!”

I ran from her room and down the hall. An unfamiliar nurse intercepted me, and I demanded she come back to Mom's room.

"Something is wrong with my mother ... you have to come. Why didn't you know?" I practically screamed as tears streamed down my face and my whole body trembled.

"I understand you are upset, but we are not monitoring your mother at the nurse's station. You know there are ‘do not resuscitate’ orders ... but I will come to check on her. Please wait outside her room, it will be easier for us."

Rochelle, the nurse who had been seeing Mom since she had been moved from the ICU, appeared and guided me to a nearby chair. She talked softly and reassured me. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed.

"You can go in now and stay with her until the body is moved downstairs. I am so sorry."

Dr. Cohen approached. He had come to give the orders to turn off the oxygen and to make my mother's death official. He comforted me as I wept.

"I am sure she was not in any physical pain. With her dementia, she was largely unaware. She was just barely holding on. It would have been so hard to bring her home to feeding tubes and more machinery. She was a very special patient and you and Kathryn and Charlie gave her every chance, with dignity and respect."

I wanted to believe him. Most important to me was that she had not been alone when she died. I was holding her hand and was convinced that my conversation with Sandra reassured her that I was now equipped to manage my own life. I believed that Mom had waited until she knew I was confident enough to move on without her. She trusted me to sort through my closet with the advent of each new season. I didn’t need to buy another pair of Ferragamo shoes or reject my worn denim. I had inherited her good taste and used it to develop my own style.

Mom was not fond of my bohemian skirts or secondhand men's jackets, but I could always count on her to be honest and straightforward. We did not always agree, but I never doubted her love and fidelity.

Even now, so many years later, I can see my mother’s tiny feet and her pedicure. Only clear nail polish. Nothing to draw too much attention. When I so indulge, of course there is color.

Elizabeth Kert started dancing when she was very young, and over the years her working life has fluctuated between writing and dancing, both as a performer and a teacher. She has a B.A. in Aesthetic Studies from the University of California, an M.A. in Journalism from the University of Michigan and she has studied fiction writing in the Stanford Continuing Studies Creative Writing Program. She is in a writing group led by author Elizabeth Rosner and her piece “Letting Go” was included in the 15th print anthology of Crack the Spine. An excerpt from her memoir Duet was published in the Fall, 2021 issue of the Signal Mountain Review. Duet is a not-yet-published memoir about the journey shared with her son through the challenges and discoveries involved in his mental illness, addiction and recovery. Read more of Elizabeth’s work at: https://www.elizabethkert.com/