Two Mothers and a Father

By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

These stories are essentially true. Names have been changed for the privacy of those whose stories these are, and an embellishment or two may creep in to fill gaps in my own memory I did not have a tape recorder. Nonetheless, the events themselves really did take place.

When it was plain to her family that Kathryn’s forgetfulness and confusion were just the beginning of a long slide into the shadows and silence of dementia, they began the sad search for a place where she could be cared for.

When her adult children began to talk to her about it, her usually sweet demeanor turned to anger. There was nothing wrong with her, she said, and she was not going to be dragged out of the house she had lived in all those years that her children were growing up and where memories of her Bill were strongest. Her daughters took her from one assisted living facility to the next, some too expensive, some just not good enough.

Worst of all was Kathryn’s fear of being abandoned in a strange place. She threw childish tantrums as they turned in the driveway of a “home,” with outbursts that subsided only when they took her back to her own true home where she tried to demonstrate that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

When her daughters were nearly beside themselves, a friend told them about Olga. Olga moved in with women in Kathryn’s situation, and simply lived with them, earning a modest stipend, nearly all of which was sent at once to her own family in one of the small, desperately poor countries that were cast adrift when the USSR disintegrated.

The problem was that Olga was an undocumented alien. She asked to be paid in cash. She kept a low profile, cooking, cleaning, and avoiding situations that might expose her to the authorities. She didn’t even have an address to call her own.

You can see why we’ve protected Olga from being identified. She was illegal, pure and simple, and so were those who engaged her services.

On the day they were going to interview Olga, they arranged for her to come to their mother’s home, the least threatening place they could think of, although their mother saw through them and was already pouting when Olga arrived.

Olga arrived, and as she came up the walk, carrying a couple of large suitcases, it was the first time Kathryn’s daughters realized: Olga lived with her clients because she had no place to call her own, nor wanted one.

Arrangements were made, despite Olga’s meager English and Kathryn’s revulsion that “that woman” was going to move into her house and stay there night and day. The deal was sealed, however, when one daughter noticed that her mother began to rise from her chair and Olga was by her side in an instant, gently taking her elbow.

For weeks, Kathryn fumed and complained, but eventually her daughters sensed that Olga’s patience had won the day. Kathryn called Olga her friend, and they played cards and they went for walks and ate the food Olga prepared for them - together.

When Kathryn’s long, sad illness finally stilled the vibrant little woman she once was, Olga stayed on at the house until, a few weeks later, she was needed by someone else.

Seventy years. Imagine being married to the same feller or gal for 70 years. The Clarkes from near Lebanon, Pa. made it and their children were throwing a celebration. The setting was the social hall across the street from the apartment house where the elders live. The apartment is the entryway to an assisted living complex where they will live out their days with minimal readjusting. In short, they love it there.

One daughter, a businesswoman here in Fayette County, notes a few of the rules for celebrating the 70th :

Schedule it for the daylight hours. You don’t have that many friends (or children) who drive after dark any more, and if you live right across the street from the social hall, so much the better.

If a renewal of the vows is on the agenda, be prepared to help coach the groom. He probably doesn’t hear like he did the first time he took those vows.

(Waitaminit. If you need to renew vows at 81 and 92, what are you considering doing? Or have done? Should you even use future-tense verbs?)

Mrs. Clarke wore a long straight dress in periwinkle blue. It took her daughters a lot of coaxing to make her agree that this occasion really did merit a new dress. They took her shopping and decided this one was perfect: modest yet festive, covered in some sort of sparkly, glittery stuff.

About halfway through the big event, Mrs. Clarke noticed that the glitter was coming off her dress. You could just about see who had had a hug by the way their clothes were shining. And - think about it - you can imagine where most of the sparkles rubbed off. The wearer of the dress had two un-sparkly, uh, places on her, uh, front. A lot was exchanged that way, so that those who had been hugged also began to glitter. It started to pop up everywhere: on the men’s neckties and the women’s scarves, in the food and on the chairs.

The dress was returned next day, and the store’s manager said so many had been returned he is quite sure the wholesalers would credit him.

Mr. and Mrs. Clarke are quite fit for their age. Mr. Clarke, however, is very deaf. Apparently he tolerates teasing about it. Midway through the wedding service, when the pastor ran through all that is expected of a husband and it was Mr. C.’s turn to answer, a couple of his children thrust a sign into the air where neither he nor those assembled could miss it.

Three-inch high letters left him no recourse.

“I WILL,” it said.