Me and Ma

 

The moments I share with Mom now are simple: I hold her hands and tell her I love her.

Coming Of Age

Ma had a history of being a generous and thoughtful gift-giver. She loved to make people smile. On my 18th birthday, she prefaced my gift with something like this:

"Missy, I've been holding onto your gift for 18 years - waiting to give this to you. It means a lot to me and I'd like for you to have it..."

I'm thinking - WOW...this must be something really special! Some sort of family heirloom, perhaps? A piece of jewelry?! What is it?!

Ma went into her bedroom, dug into her underwear drawer, and pulled out a small canister and handed it to me: "This was the spermicidal foam that was supposed to have worked the night you were conceived...."

"Whaaaat?! Ma - that's gross!"

"I thought about writing the company and thanking them for making a faulty product. It's because of this that I have you."


Such a weird, wonderful and loving gesture. And so perfectly my Mom.

Headlines

I've read that an Alzheimer's brain in the later stages can be like a lamp with a frayed cord. Moments of light are flickering - depending on the inconsistent power from an unreliable cord.

Mom's lamp has been mostly off for about three years. It's been over three years since I've heard her say my name, or even look at me with some sort of glimmer of recognition. Dad will report an occasional smile, or an even more rare "Hi!". Her lamp cord will get bumped and her lamp light will flicker for a brief moment, and then it's gone. These are grand events for Dad...and if I'm getting an update on his week, he'll report a smile from Mom like a newspaper headline. It's these flickers of light that help to keep him going.

I visited Mom and Dad at the end of September. It's difficult to see Mom. She's lost so much weight she looks almost skeletal. She is now completely wheelchair bound and has difficulty sitting upright. Dad often struggles to keep her awake to feed her. She rarely talks. If she does, it might be one word, or a nonsensical string of sounds.

I pulled up a chair next to Mom and gave her a hug. And then I got in her face. "Hi, Mom...it's me, Missy....I came to see you...."

And then I saw something in Mom's eyes that I haven't seen in over three years. She looked right at me. She saw me. And then her eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but no sounds came out. For a few minutes, her lamp light was on. I got to tell her I loved her, and that I missed her, and that I was really sorry that this happened to her. And even though she wasn't able to say anything, it really felt like I got to spend a few minutes with my Mom.

Here's my newspaper headline recapping the event:

Daughter tells her Mother she loves her. Mother understands.

Eat! White! Leather!

I played volleyball in my junior high and into part of my high school years, and I had a fan club. And that fan club had just one member: Mom.

Mom came to nearly every volleyball game I ever played. Her devotion to watching me play was tireless. For in-season games, she trekked all over the Twin Cities to neighboring towns at least one night of every week. And for the off-season games, she often would travel with our team for weekend tournaments to glorious places like Iowa City, or sometimes even Chicago!

She and a couple other moms joined us for a weekend tournament in some mid-western city that escapes me. I was probably 15 - so at the height of my eye-rolling teenagerness. Mom had spotted a t-shirt that said: "Eat! White! Leather!" with an image of a zooming volleyball on it...and she thought that was awesome.

So, when our team played, she took it upon herself to be the team cheerleader. Her one cheer?

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

Whenever it seemed appropriate, Mom shouted it out with everything she had...

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

My teammate just served the ball and scored our team a point...

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

I blocked the opposing team's hit...

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

It got to a point where I was getting those "your Mom is weird" looks from my teammates.

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

But she was so tireless and passionate about it, it went from weird to funny...

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

...it was even more funny after she started losing her voice from yelling so much...

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

...but even losing her voice didn't stop her.

"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"
"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"
"LOVE! YOU! MOM!"
"EAT! WHITE! LEATHER!"

Griffin Dean

Once again, I blinked and my baby boy turned one year old.

And here is my very (very, very) late Polack Orange interweb-ulous introduction of Griffin Dean Mohn:

Born September 20, 2011 at 10:15 a.m. Our "little" dude was 10 lbs 13 ounces. (Thank goodness for c-sections!) A bold tribute to my Mom would've been to name him Gerald Dean. We went with Griffin Dean instead. He wears that name like a glove.

Griffin is adventurous, feisty, chunky, hilarious, and has a little boy voice that sounds a little bit like E.T. As a new walker, he spends most of his time wandering around our living room waving around a dirty sock or wet dish cloth like a drunk cowboy that's just hopped off his horse. Each Griffin moment is like an unscripted comedic scene. He's our household comic relief. The court jester of Castle Mohn.

Prior to Griffin's arrival, Mom stopped eating. Within weeks of my due date, I was having daily conversations with my Dad about the state of things... "Did she eat anything today? Were you able to get her to drink anything? Has she been awake much lately?" I was simultaneously preparing for the birth of my son and the death of my Mother. I was at a bit of a loss on how to feel about it. I remember saying to a few people that knew what was going on..."It's kinda some intense circle of life shit." (Cue the unrated version of the Lion King song.)

Well, Mom pulled through. She started eating again. She had more awake moments. And since then she continues to have ups and downs. And with her ups and downs with the disease, I have my own as well. But to help me through it, I've got my Drunk Cowboy E.T. son to make me smile and with a middle name to help carry on her legacy.

Funny Girls

Here we are in California in 1983. This is one of just a handful of pictures of just the two of us. Mom loved Babs and had a bunch of her records. I did a lot of dancing to A Star is Born in our living room - actually, it was probably more like excited flailing.

Penis Cake

One summer when I was home from college, I stumbled into the kitchen around the crack of noon and I found my Mom making a penis cake. That's right: a cake shaped like a penis.

My sister, Heather, was attending a bachelorette party, and her job was to bring the penis cake. Who does she go to for help? Mom. If you had a crazy and zany task and don't know what to do, Mom was your go-to gal.

So, if you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to bring a penis cake to a party, here's Mom's tried and true recipe:

Step 1: Gather your ingredients. Cake mix - white or chocolate (personal preference, I guess - HEY-O!), frosting, red food coloring, and some coconut snowballs. Yes, that's right.




Step 2: Bake your cake according to the directions. Let it cool. And then you need to draw out your penis shape on the cake. Ask a guy-friend for help. They'll love to offer up some advice.




Step 3: Cut sections of cake around your penis cake and carefully remove them. Sample the cake to make sure it tastes ok.




Step 4: Remove the penis from the cake pan and put it on a foil-covered cutting board. Then, you can give the penis a little rest while you work on the balls.




Step 5: This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy (or hairy). I thought that Mom put the coconut balls in the oven on broil to "toast" the coconut shaving to make them look more like hair. My results looked less like hair, and more like some horrible ball-disease. Yikes!




Step 6: So, you can totally skip the ball broiling, I think. Next move onto the frosting. Add just a small amount of red food coloring to give your frosting that flesh tone. Adjust your colors to your personal preference.




Step 7: Frost your penis. Place your balls on top.




And there you have it. A cake shaped like a penis. Mom taught me so many great things.

43 Years

Today is my parent's anniversary. They have been married for 43 years.



Here they are outside my Grandma's house in Ely. The boots, hat and cane were likely props from my Uncle - perhaps from his stint in Russia?

This is my favorite picture of my parents. It's actually hanging in my hallway. They just look so young, happy and giddy with love. Don't they look like the kind of couple you'd want to party with? I think so.

I've really been trying to think about their 43 years together - especially the past 10 years. Because it was about 10 years ago that we started noticing a change in Mom. For a long time, it was really hard to accept what was happening to her. But now - there's no denying that the Alzheimer's has totally taken over. There's really nothing left of Mom. Words don't make much sense either to her or from her. Moving around is tough because her balance and motor control is not good. She sleeps a lot - she needs help with eating, getting dressed, and going to the bathroom. Dad has to help her with everything.

If there is a silver lining to this awful experience, it has been seeing the depth of the love that my Dad has for my Mom. It blows me away, actually. He's incredibly patient, kind and sweet to her. He sings songs to her. He cares for her in a way that I never knew he had in him. We've all been so focused on what's happening to Mom, that sometimes I forget to think about Dad. The way I see it right now: he's the unsung hero of this love story.

So, here's to 43 years of marriage.
For better or for worse.
In sickness and in health.
And you know the rest...

Hey, you! I know you! I know you!

Whenever I get in a pool and pretend to do synchronized swimming, this is what it looks like:

Cleanliness

I have this image on my fridge:




It helps me with the guilt I have about my dirty floors, sticky counters and all the Cheerios in my couch.

And then not that long ago, I remembered my Mom had a plaque hanging in her kitchen that said this:



Except hers was a wooden plaque with hand painted orange letters and yellow daisies. I love how her wooden plaque had a lasting impression on me.

I guess I have my Mom to blame for the Cheerios in my couch.

I Love a Parade

The cute one looking right at the camera with the fantastic brunette bee-hive...that's my Mama.

Mom really knew how to work a parade float.

Last Supper

A few weeks ago, Jason and I were talking about our last meals. If we were going to be executed, what would we pick as our last meal? A nice, light evening discussion topic.

It didn't take me long to decide: A giant bowl of rigatoni noodles swimming in butter. And I'm totally serious about the butter - the noodles should be floating on top of a pool of sweet, golden goodness.

Mom used to make this for me as a kid. She really didn't cook much, but she used to make me "fat" noodles whenever I requested them. And she never did skimp on the butter (she didn't really skimp on anything) but, the woman could have used an ice cream scoop. I have these warm and fuzzy memories of sitting on the bar stool up at the bright orange kitchen counter top, listening to Juice Newton on the radio, sipping milk from the yellow Tupperware cup, slurping buttery fat noodles from a bowl, and being with my Mom.

It seems like just the right emotional place to be just before a nice long dirt nap, don't you think?

And Jason's last meal?

"The liver of my enemy."

Happy New Year!

Yikes! It's been nearly a year since I've added a post! One of my new year's resolutions: To write more about my Mama. I've had stories floating around in my head all year, but haven't taken the time to type them out.

I'm gonna blame this guy:



Mom would've loved this little dude. Every stubborn and hilarious inch.

Drake is what you would call an "active" child. And has moved into a new stage of general destruction around the house. Which got me to thinking about what things I destroyed as kid...

An oven. I destroyed an oven.

And I wasn't even a kid. I was in my early 20s.

When I was in college, I had an internship at the Minnesota Children's Museum. Part of my internship was to help create and execute an art activity for kids. The theme was: Crazy Crayons! And in my research on activities with crayons, I stumbled upon instructions on how to make your own crayons by breaking up old crayons into muffin tins and melting them together in the oven. My first batch? Brilliant! The different colors of wax swirled together in a cookie-shaped crayon of crazy! Success!

It was the second batch - I couldn't leave well-enough alone. I wanted to break new ground in crazy crayon-making...what other shapes could be made? I dug around in my parents kitchen drawer and found a gingerbread man cookie cutter. Fun! A man shaped crayon!

So, I carefully wrapped the bottom of the cookie cutter in tinfoil and filled it with broken crayon bits and threw it in the oven for the few minutes of melting. It wasn't long before smoke started billowing out of the oven, and when I opened it, I could see that the crayon wax had seeped through the tinfoil, dripped onto the cookie sheet, and then onto the bottom of the oven. My Mom's oven had a large puddle of crayon wax in it. Crap!!! Was every Thanksgiving turkey from now on going to have the taste of Burnt Sienna or Cadet Blue?

And just as I was having a minor freak-out moment, Mom walked in to see what all the fuss was about...

Me: "Um, Mom - I think I may have ruined your oven."

Mom: "Eh - I don't care. I don't cook much anyway, and I've always hated that oven."

Made in Germany

Mom and Dad honeymooned in Germany. And every now and then, they'd dust off the slides from their trip and give us the slide show tour. They'd get to the picture of just a room in some bed and breakfast where the bed was stuffed with feathers, and they'd proudly proclaim that was where my sister Amy was conceived.

EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWW!

As if that wasn't enough, they'd continue and tell us about the custom rubber stamp that Mom had made for one of her gynecologist appointments... Her doctor lifted her shirt to find "MADE IN GERMANY" stamped on her big round belly.

The kid-me thought that was weird and gross. The adult-me thinks it's fantastically hilarious.

So, in a little homage to Mom, someday I hope to weird and gross-out Drake with this:

Tinfoil Yamaka

Having three daughters, my parents had to deal with a variety of young lads a courtin' on the Radford girls. Whenever I talk about my Dad dealing with his dating daughters, I like to share the bit of advice he gave me about men: "Missy, guys have two heads, and neither of them are for thinking." He would also threaten to send me out on dates with a nickel in between my knees with the instructions that I had to keep it there. My Dad. Such a quotable guy.

Anyway, one of the fine, young lads that came around was a Jewish boy named Jeremy. He had a large crush on my oldest sister, Amy. Now Amy was always dating other guys, but that never deterred Jeremy. I remember him stopping over at our house for years. He spent so much time at our house one summer, my parents called him their "Adopted Jewish Son."

To Jeremy, I think I will always represent the annoying little sister. But, I have to give him credit for a few things. One, because of him I know how to make a blow torch out of a can of Aqua Net and a lighter. Two, I know that it is possible for a person to like both John Denver AND Prince. And three, he's the only guy to ever convince me to get on the back of his motorcyle. (Sorry, Dad!)

I remember him stopping over at our house one day. This day happened to be a Jewish holiday and he was supposed to be wearing his yamaka, but he had forgotten it.

So Mom, in classic mom-form, lovingly made him one out of tinfoil.

I would love to see what Mom could've done with a roll of toilet paper and a wedding dress challenge.

For A Quarter

I've been missing Mom a lot lately. There are so many things about being a Mom that I wish I could share with her. And I wish that she could enjoy this guy:




There are really so many things to enjoy about him...the 2-tooth smiles, the giggles, the snuggles, and the chunky, chunky you-can-hide-quarters-in-those-rolls goodness. I know if Mom was still Mom she'd be eating it all up with a spoon. But, Mom hasn't been Mom for a long time.

And now that I'm a Mom, I feel like it's stirred up some more memories of Ma. I'll be going about my day - feeding Drake or changing his diaper, and a memory will hit me over the head. The other day I was in the car with Drake - on our way to daycare, and we were listening to an 80s station on the radio. I was waxing nostalgic to a Cyndi Lauper tune, and I remembered being in the car with Mom and listening to the "oldies" station. Mom would be in the front seat with Dad and a tune would come on the radio and she would turn around and offer my sisters and I a quarter if we could name the artist.

And then Amy, Heather and I would shout out the 3 "oldies" singers that we knew; I don't think we ever got a song right. But, it was always fun to try. Mom always seemed to find ways to make everything more fun.

And that's the kind of Mom that I want to be. The Mom that makes everything more fun.

I want to be the Mom that offers Drake a quarter for naming the singer of "She Bop."

I might even double it for a Prince tune.

Thank You Easter Bunny

Mom liked to overdo things - especially for the holidays. For example, for Valentine's Day she never bought us the $1.99 class pack of cards to hand out at school - no - Mom would special order Valentine's cards from a catalog that included a matching pencil and sticker.

Easter was no exception. I definitely remember the Easter baskets filled with hollow chocolate bunnies and plastic trinkets, but my most memorable Easters were the ones from my late teen years. Mom scrapped the Easter baskets and instead set up an Easter egg hunt for me and my older sisters. Yup. At the crack of Noon on Easter Sunday my sisters and I, still in our pajamas, would scour our family room for plastic eggs filled with cold, hard Easter cash.

Mom would get a variety of bills...$1, $5, $10, $20, and stash one in a hide-a-egg. She'd hide, say, 30 eggs and we each could gather 10 each. So, it was possible that the Easter Bunny could bring you $10 or $100, depending on your luck.

After we found our 10 eggs each, we'd sit on the floor and take turns opening our eggs. It was like we were on our own game show. There were "ooos and aaahs" with each egg opening. And, year after year and one by one, I would open 10, $1 eggs. My sister, Heather, the girl who loves money so much she used to wash and sort the coins in her coin jar on a regular basis as a kid, would open a series of $10 and $20 eggs. I think she could smell the bigger bills through the plastic eggs.

But then something magical would happen...the spirit of Easter became stronger than Heather's desire to horde cash, and she would offer to trade one of her twenties for one of my ones. I always quickly accepted the offer.

And the Easter Bunny would just sit back and smile.

Drake!

On Tuesday, February 17th at 1:30 a.m., we welcomed Drake Jerritt Mohn. I am now officially a Mom. The little guy fills me with all sorts of gooey feelings inside. He's finally here.




Prior to Drake's birth, I would talk to Mom and Dad on the phone about his arrival. Dad seemed anxious and excited for another grandson. But, with his joy, there was also sadness that Mom wasn't aware of what was happening and that she couldn't share the experience with me.

Here was my typical weekly conversation with Mom:

"Mom, did you know that I'm pregnant?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yup. I'm going to have a baby boy. You're going to be a grandma again. What do you think about that?"

And then Mom would typically trail off with a string of nonsensical words. I'm not sure that most of our conversations even registers with her anymore. But, despite our discouraging conversations, each week I continued to remind her about her grandson on the way. Somewhere deep inside her there had to be a part of her that could still feel happy - a part that could still remember the joy and excitement of a new baby.

Mom and Dad came to the hospital the day Drake was born. Dad asked a good friend of theirs to make the trek with them, as long car trips have gotten hard for Mom. Dad had talked about coming to the hospital for a while. Part of me was very glad that they were going to make the trip, and another part of me was really worried about how the visit would be for me emotionally.

And in the end, I was able to focus more on the sweet than the bitter. Even though Mom didn't really seem aware of what had happened at the hospital, Dad was beaming. I had that. And that was worth plenty.

Mom Club

Here's a picture of my newborn self with my Mom and two sisters. Mom looks tired and pale, but she looks happy. And I think this might be the one and only picture where my sisters look pleased that I exist. I would also like to add there there were two photos taken from this sitting. In the other photo, I was completely cross-eyed. A sign of my budding personality, I think.

As a little one, thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'd often ask my parents the same question. My Dad would say that he wanted to be a pilot. The first time he told me, I heard it as "pirate". I was understandably disappointed. When I asked my Mom, she would say without hesitation that she wanted to be a Mom. That was her dream job.

And here I sit on bed rest at nearly 36 weeks pregnant. I could have this baby boy at any time now. That idea fills me with a random collection of emotions that I have a hard time describing. The decision to become a Mom was not an easy one for me, and it took me a while to get there. Sometimes I wish I was entering into this new career without hesitation and with the certainty that my Mom had. I wish that I could talk to her about becoming a Mom.

But, then I think most of her wisdom she's already passed on by example. I've had about 30 years to observe an expert - I need to work on having some faith that Mom has already instilled in me the things I need to know to become a good Mom.

However, there are two things I know for certain: I'm looking forward to joining the Mom Club, and I can't wait to meet this little guy.

Who's Johnny?

The Alzheimer's seems to be taking over more and more. To me, it seems Mom's decline in the past two months has been more than in the past two years. It's been scary to see the rapid progression, but also not that surprising. Dad suspects that one of the study drugs she was on with the Mayo was doing more to slow the progression than we thought. (They recently stopped the study due to some undisclosed side effects.)

The biggest change I have noticed with Mom is all of her chattering. A few months ago, time spent with her was mostly spent in silence. Any efforts to engage her in conversation were usually unsuccessful. She would respond with a one word answer, or with a response that had no relevance to the question at all. My feelings are that she was very aware of her Alzheimer's and its limitations on her conversational skills, and she preferred to not talk to save herself the struggle and embarrassment.

But now? Now she talks all the time. She chatters on about all sorts of things: what she sees, colors, the earth, babies, and "Johnny." Most of what she says doesn't make much sense, and often if you try to engage her on one of those topics, it doesn't really go anywhere. She seems to be hallucinating almost all of the time now. And not only does she talk about "Johnny", she talks to him. Sometimes she'll even call Dad Johnny.

So, I asked her recently: "Mom, who's Johnny?"

She just shrugged and laughed, "You know, I'm not really sure. But I think he's a playboy."

And that made me laugh, too. It was a rare moment where I could laugh at the Alzheimer's. It doesn't seem to bother her one bit that this character Johnny hangs around. Perhaps he's a suave fella and he's working all of his charms on my Mom? If so, I think that's great. Go Mom.

So, even though she's declined, I feel a strange reassurance with this stage that she's at. She no longer seems aware that she has Alzheimer's, and therefore, doesn't have to feel bad about it. She freely chatters throughout the day, and often laughs about what she's saying. It seems like the world inside of her head maybe isn't such a bad place to be.

And now when I'm around her, it gives me comfort just to hear her talk.

Even if it is to her playboy fantasy friend, Johnny.