Mother's Day is everyday
My mother, Norma Jean Anderson, was still alive when I wrote this Mother’s Day piece about her three years ago. At the time, I was editor of the briefly resurrected Savoy Magazine and also wrote a column, "Monroe’s Doctrine," for each issue. This ran in the April/May 2005 issue.
MOTHER’S DAY MEMORIES
BY MONROE ANDERSON
The first time I gave my mother one of those humorous Mother’s Day cards, I quickly got the message: Mother’s Day is not funny. She quietly laid the card aside, smelled the flowers I’d given her and thanked me for the pretty floral house robe she’d tried on and was admiring as she looked in the mirror.
From that Mother’s Day on, I made it a practice of giving her one of those sweet and sentiment Hallmark cards. After opening it, she’d beam, “That’s so beautiful.” Then she’d show off the card and read the worlds aloud for everyone in the family.
This past Mother’s Day was not the same. For my mother, it was just another day. Her days all slip one into the next with her not knowing if it’s Sunday or Wednesday or Friday. She’s not even sure if it is spring or fall.
MY MOTHER HAS ALZHEIMER’S
Not that she is alone. By all accounts being reported in the media, so does Rosa Parks. Alzheimer’s has become a silent epidemic in the black community. A study released earlier this year estimates that the prevalence of the disease rangers from 14 percent to almost 100 percent higher among blacks than whites.
For my mother, it’s hereditary. As a preschooler, I remember watching my grandmother caring for her “senile” mother, Nana, who was 89. A generation later, I watched my mother care for my “senile” grandmother, Elizabeth, who died at 96. For my mother, my sister Liz has been doing the caretaking.
My mother’s Alzheimer’s has progressed to the point where the past and the present easily entangle. She sometimes confuses me with two other men who she’s loved and are important in her life. Sometimes I’m her brother, Scott, who’s been dead for more than a decade. Sometimes I’m my father, Monroe, who has been dead for nearly a quarter of a century. In those cases, I’m called on to remember an incident that occurred or relatives who died before I was born.
When I visit with her, we still talk as we always have. But these days our talks no longer connect. A couple of months ago, she proudly told me, “I’m going to give the valedictorian speech at my high school graduation tomorrow.”
Several of her teachers complimented her, she matter-of-factly reported, for being such a good student. I nodded in agreement, fully knowing that Norma Jean Anderson graduated from Roosevelt High School in 1943—six months after she secretly eloped and married my father, Monroe.
Before I could say anything she was back in the moment. Back to being the loving, caring mother whose memory I cherish. She wanted to know if I was hungry. Should she cook something for me to eat?
I told her I was fine as we sat in the cafeteria of the nursing home. She was eating mystery meant with mashed potatoes. It may have been nutritious but it was definitely not appetizing.
There was a time when she knew that the nursing home was not the place she wanted to be. She begged my sister and me to never send her to one. We tried to honor her wishes. But after years of watching in horror as our mother descended into the valley of stripped memory and dense dementia, we could no longer keep her in the home she’d raised us in. She had begun to wander out of the house into the streets looking for great-grandchildren she imagined were crying out for help.
So my sister put our mother in the same nursing home, in the same Alzheimer’s ward, where our mother’s sister was housed.
I periodically tell myself that it may be a good thing that my mother’s memory is failing. There is so much tragedy that she’d rather not remember.
Her father died when she was just 11 years old. Six of her eight brothers and sisters died, almost all from tuberculosis, before she was grown. After my father died, at age 61, from a sudden heart attack, she went into a depression. Then her mother died, followed shortly afterwards with the death of her only surviving brother. Her youngest child, my brother, was beaten senseless. After three months in a coma, he died at age 39. I watched as each of these losses took their toll on her.
I think about Mother’s Days of many years past. When my father, brother and grandmother were all there at the dining room table, trying to get her to relax and let others serve her on her day. She had on interest in going out to some fancy restaurant to celebrate her day. Of course, she wouldn’t think of it. She was just happy to have all of us in her life and to be in all of our lives.
I look back on those days with sweet memories and bitter regrets. There was so much I took for granted back then. There were so many things I should have said that I didn’t. And now, as I try to say those things to my mother, she usually does not hear nor understand them.
So I come away from each visit depressed at seeing her in her illness and comforted in the realization that, for me, thanks to my loving memories, every day is Mother’s Day.







ere are 945,268 Andersons and 12,158 Monroes.

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