I remember, somewhat foggily, being on the boat to Catalina, the morning of my best friend Karen’s 17th birthday. I remember Pat offering me a doughnut, and my feeling as though it was probably the last thing I would want, and she knew it. My friend and I were hung over. She knew that too, having been with us all night. We were going to drink, and she made it a safe environment. She was good about things like that. So, yeah the whole doughnut offer was a bit of a lesson, along with the boat ride. And I could never get upset with her, because she was always warm and funny and our “partner in crime.”
Pat was Karen’s mom. She was the one I could confide in when a guy was a jerk. She would be appropriately shocked, mortified even, and then come up with a witty response; a way to put him in his place, and the whole issue in perspective. Pat was a stay-at-home mom. She made wonderful dinners, threw fabulous parties, and burnt cookies. OK, so she only burnt them once, and we never let her forget it. But she was a good sport. She could take a ribbing and give as good as she got.
Being from Massachusetts, she had an accent. She moved to California when a few years prior, Al having gotten a promotion in his company. And we teased her about that accent too. “Keerin, come downstayahs, I need your help with something.”
Her house was always clean, and she took me with her family on vacations to the lake to go water skiing. She could organize a party at the drop of a dime, and she always was in on the joke. I remember the laughter, the humor and the warmth. She was the one who signed the birthday cards, and they were always from Mom and Dad #2. She and Al were my second set of parents. And Bill was my older brother.
Then there was the time in Emerald Bay. The wine flowed freely, and Karen and I sang off in the woods by the lake. We realized that we were getting a bit loud, and better not to alert the parents to our “condition,” as we were pretty looped. We need not have been too concerned. We wandered forth back to the dock where the boat was secured. There was Pat, her face glowing in the light of the moon.
“You know,” she told us, attempting to sit in her low beach chair, which Karen was trying to move toward the middle of the dock, “that is the very same moon that shines on Cape Cod!” We weren’t the only ones who’d been nipping at the wine.
The true beauty of Pat was in her ability to relate to anyone. She was approachable, with such a good nature that everyone was at ease with her. She would impart little bits of wisdom, cleaning short-cuts and parenting solutions to Karen and I in the same tone as greeting heads of state. She was, in a word, genuine.
Pat was the one who hosted my bridal shower when I married my first husband at 20 years old. She and Al were 19 when they wed. We would sit and she would tell me about their early days, dating then the first few years of marriage. And when Karen got married, it was her home that we gathered before going to the church. That was the day we had trouble keeping Pat from tears. Emotions running high, out of town relatives, so many details. But she did great. Just like always. Once again, at the reception, she glowed, the proud mother of the bride.
Granddaughters followed a short time later. Four in all. And Pat was there for the parties, the holidays, the good times. She was as fabulous a grandmother as anyone ever was.
Karen would tell me then that Mom and Dad were like newlyweds again. They would pack picnics and take the boat out. They would have weekends in Las Vegas. They were living the life they had earned from a long, loving marriage.
The diagnosis was terribly hard. I don’t recall the actual name of the disorder. The doctor mentioned the usual time span of the disease. A few years, and not the quality of life Pat had come to enjoy. And over time, the dementia took its toll. It took away Mom bit by bit. I wasn’t there for those years, having moved to another state after my own mother had passed. I was running away, like a child. Away from the reality that my life would never be the same. And I wasn’t there for the people that were always there for me. Not physically. But as I write tonight, I am flooded with the joy and warmth and fun that was Pat. There was a picture last Christmas, of Al and Pat. It was a lucid moment for her, and they were both laughing with the friendship and intimacy that comes of a lifetime of growing together. I smile each time I see it, remembering so much laughter, a flashback to the way things used to be.
The text message came a couple of nights ago. Karen was alerting me that it would not be long, and Mom would be leaving us. Dad and Bill and Karen were there with her. And my heart broke for them all. The next day was my birthday. Mom went home. I imagine her once again whole, up to mischief, and once again whole. She has been missed for some time now, her true essence slowly hidden behind the curtain of a cruel disorder.
So, tonight I say farewell to my second mother. I am grateful that she is no longer suffering. She is undoubtedly laughing, bringing joy to the souls around her as she had for so many years here with her loved ones. And I look forward to sharing a laugh with her again someday.