Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  My mom had many ways of showing her affection but she was definitely not a warm and fuzzy parent. I wish she’d felt comfortable saying the words “I love you” a little more often. Even so, I still felt extremely loved and cherished and was always grateful for Mom’s loving actions.

  So I want my kids to understand there are numerous ways to say “I love you.” So often, actions speak louder than words, and what we show through our behavior is what our kids will learn. Someone once told me that your kids may not hear what you say, but they surely watch what you do. While my kids have watched me interact with my mom, as she has declined over the years, I hope the tenderness and concern between us means something to them. I hope they store away the memories of our many visits to Georgia and know that no matter how busy and chaotic their future lives may be, they need to make time for the people they hold near and dear. I hope they’ll be there for them as I have tried to be for my mom during the twilight of her life. I hope I have infused in them a sense of strength, love and compassion toward the elderly, and I hope they’ve come to understand the true meaning of being a multigenerational family—taking care of one another.

  I also want my children to remember where they came from and the history of our family. I want them to recall my small childhood home with its one bathroom for eleven people and always remember my humble beginnings. I take great pride in reinforcing that memory every time we go back to Georgia to visit my relatives and friends—God-fearing people with thick Southern accents and simple lives.

  Most of all, I want to show my children that faith is the bedrock of everything in life. My mom taught me so much based on her strong faith. Her love for God guided her in all things. Mom believed that no matter how high or how low you are in life, you are first and foremost a child of God. I think about that a lot—especially the importance of staying humble and putting my relationship with God ahead of everything else. I find myself walking down a New York City street singing a gospel hymn I learned so long ago in the New Hope Baptist Church: “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! . . .” just like we sang it in the church choir. I remember hating choir rehearsal and Sunday school, but here I am forty years later singing “Blessed Assurance” or “The Old Rugged Cross.” Mom got us all up every Sunday, all nine of the kids, and made sure we were fed and dressed for church.

  “You owe something to God,” she would always say.

  God was always a strong presence in our home. We said grace before every meal and knelt beside our beds to say our prayers at night to give thanks to God and all his glory for our blessings. Whenever one of us lied about something, Mom reminded us that “the Lord is watching,” and you can bet that if we ever mistreated someone, we’d get a lecture about the Golden Rule—“Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you” was one of her favorite lessons to pass along to each of her children.

  As I grew older these valuable lessons resonated deep inside of me. Like any kid, I sometimes fought with my younger sisters or acted selfishly when I wanted something. But more and more I’d ask myself, “What would God think of my actions or my words?” Whenever I felt hurt or afraid, I felt the Lord’s presence to guide and comfort me.

  I took Mom’s admonitions to heart and never dreamed of swearing or drinking. In high school, when some of my friends managed to get a six-pack of beer or sneak into nightclubs on Friday nights, I wanted nothing to do with it, because Mom and Dad would be disappointed, but most of all, so would God. Yes, sometimes I felt like a Goody Two-shoes, but my faith had taken root and was my ever-present compass.

  Today I still cling tightly to my Christian faith even as I race around in a high-pressure city juggling family and career. Or maybe I should say I cling to my faith because I am racing around in a high-stress life. Whenever I am discouraged or anxious, it is always prayer that brings me peace. I remind myself that work, while satisfying, doesn’t define me. When I am at an airport late at night and one of the kids is on the other end of the phone sick or crying, I take a deep breath and pray. I know that through God’s grace they will get through it. And when things seem to be falling apart, I trust that God has a greater plan. I place my trust in him and know that everyone will be all right.

  When we were worried about something growing up, Mom would always say, “It’s in God’s hands. The Lord knows what’s right.” Somehow, knowing that always made me feel safe, secure and certain that life was unfolding exactly as it should. No matter what was happening in that moment, whether I was stressing out about a test or hurt by kids teasing me about my dark skin, knowing God had a plan helped me to shrug off the problems of day-to-day life; I had the solace that he would set things right.

  Mom was raised in a religious home, but after losing her mother and father too young, she found even deeper comfort in her faith. We went to Sunday school every week at the New Hope Baptist Church, and by the time we were in grade school, we were expected to participate in church, such as joining the choir or being an usher. Not my brother Ben, though; he just refused. He often tried to slip out of church when Mom wasn’t watching from the choir stand, but she would promptly send an usher to go outside and get him.

  She wanted all of her children to know God’s love and make it a part of our daily life. She taught me the importance of having a connection to a higher power and the impact it would have on us later in life. I owe my sense of spirituality to my mother and feel so lucky that she passed this gift on to me. Whether I’m about to do a big interview or make a speech or help one of the kids with a problem, I never begin before asking for God’s guidance and blessing.

  I am appreciative that Al’s parents gave him a strong spiritual foundation too. His mom spoke of her faith daily, which influenced Al in his beliefs. If we called with exciting news of a new contract or an upcoming vacation, she always replied with a glorious “God is good!”—a saying I will admit I have adopted because I feel it praises the Lord in such a positive way.

  Al and I are both determined to pass these lessons of faith on to our children because we know how wonderfully influenced our lives have been by having the presence of faith and God in our lives. Of course, like most kids, they sometimes complain about it, but we go to church nearly every Sunday. I was raised Baptist and Al was raised Catholic, but we have found a wonderful Episcopal church not far from our home that is a comfortable middle ground. St. James’ Church has a dynamic kids’ program and a female rector. From our first Sunday service, we immediately felt at home there.

  My husband and I are proud to have savvy, smart kids who are able to make good decisions and will no doubt have an impact on the world someday. But we’re even prouder to be raising spiritually minded children who care about their community and who also consider God in their decisions. Whenever we sit down for dinner, Nicky is the first to offer prayer for our meals, and bedtime prayers are part of our nightly ritual. It’s a delight to see some of my childhood traditions being carried on through my children. In her quiet way my mom taught me to give thanks to God for all things. I hope and pray my children will someday do the same—and maybe even exclaim to my future grandchildren, “God is good!”

  DEBORAH

  Coping with an Ailing Parent

  Once I left the comfort of small-town Perry, Georgia, to begin my career, I never imagined returning there to live someday. I had a loving and nurturing upbringing, and I have beautiful memories. But my sights were set on conquering the great big world out there and making my parents proud. They never demanded it of me, but being successful fit into my childhood desire to make everyone happy. It meant a lot to me to know my parents could be proud of what I was doing with my life. They were thrilled when I went to the University of Georgia and proudly wore the Georgia Bulldog shirts and hats I gave them. After graduation, I landed my first television job as a general assignment reporter in Columbus, Georgia. I felt that I was on my way. I had my own apartment and felt as fabulous as
Mary Tyler Moore. I would even hum her famous end line from her television theme song: “You’re gonna make it after all.” All I needed was a beret to toss up in the air. I still remember my first yearly salary: $11,500. Believe it or not, that wasn’t bad for a twenty-two-year-old gal in the early eighties. That I was able to accomplish this in my life was both gratifying and fulfilling.

  As soon as I settled into the working world, I started sending Mom little gifts for no reason and flowers on her birthday, my way of giving back to her and celebrating my success. She loved the attention. When she called to thank me, she often said, “I like getting my flowers when I’m living and can smell them . . . not when I’m dead.”

  Mama and Daddy beamed whenever I had a report on the air, even if it was about a county commission meeting. And when I joined NBC News around eight years later, they were beyond ecstatic. Their little girl was a national newswoman. Whenever I came home to visit, Mom would proudly declare to the insurance man, the grocery store checkout lady or anyone who would listen: “This is my television girl . . . my celebrity!” I cringed every time I heard her say that, but I also realized how much it meant to two people who’d never graduated high school. Mom also boasted about my sister Annette, who was a successful manager with the Enron energy corporation (before it went belly-up, devastating her and thousands of others), my brother Jackie, who had traveled the world with the air force, and my sisters Janet and Bennie, who had moved to Miami to pursue careers in fashion and music. But my job in television left my folks feeling like mini celebrities.

  One fall I was invited to be the grand marshal of the Perry farm festival parade. My parents got to ride behind me in a convertible Ford Mustang, waving and smiling to the crowds. To this day it remains one of my proudest moments. Al, a product of New York, immediately noticed the irony. My parents, who had once been denied opportunities because of their color, were now front and center, leading the parade—something neither of them would ever forget.

  After some years of distance, Dad and I grew steadily closer. He had a deep respect and steady curiosity about my work. And boy, did he get a kick out of meeting Barbara Walters at my wedding. (Barbara couldn’t have been sweeter to my parents!)

  Daddy also loved talking about my trips around the country and abroad. He was the one who encouraged me to take an assignment in Kuwait covering the lead-up to the Persian Gulf War. Mom was petrified and in tears, afraid that I would be killed there. But Dad got on the phone and said, “I’m going to pray for you every day. I know you will be all right.” That was the most tender moment I had ever shared with my daddy.

  And soon there would be more.

  Thanks to his prayers, I made it home from Kuwait, and the next time I visited my parents, they were anxious to hear all about the Middle East. Daddy even began sharing a few stories about his World War II experiences, including the Normandy Invasion.

  But Daddy was about to be diagnosed with colon cancer. Katie Couric, a former colleague and a friend, had done much to make us all aware of colon cancer after losing her husband, Jay, to the disease and I’d even done a bit of reporting on the disease myself, so we pretty much knew what to expect: a grueling treatment. Daddy was game to fight for a while, but two years later he began to grow weak and weary, often staring into space for an hour without saying a word. I think he was making a decision.

  You see, Daddy was proud. I soon realized that he wasn’t the type who’d want to linger on and spend years trying out the latest possible treatment with debilitating side effects. My sister Tina, who dived in, bringing Daddy to doctor appointments and taking notes, tried to be upbeat for everyone. But soon after a surgery to remove part of his colon she noticed a change. The fight was taking its toll and he’d had enough. Though I’d called a doctor I’d met at Dana Farber Hospital in Boston who consulted with Dad’s doctor about his drug cocktail, the struggle against cancer was still difficult. At the age of eighty-two, Dad was growing tired of the weekly doctor checkups and the chemo drips. His six-foot-two frame was becoming alarmingly thin. And, no doubt, he was living with pain that he privately held. Finally, he chose not to fight on. I respected that decision. He’d lived a proud and good life and had watched his children grow up and have their own children. He felt connected to God and at peace.

  Ever since he passed, I have been especially emotional about watching my mother age. Whenever something has been slightly wrong, I’ve jumped on a plane and flown down to Georgia so I can be by her side.

  Although Mom had been showing some signs of decline before my dad died, she really started to go downhill after he passed. She seemed to detach from everyone and everything, and it didn’t take long for me to notice that she was cognitively slipping too.

  Whenever I called, she would ramble on, telling me the same stories over and over, often losing her train of thought or not remembering what I’d told her in our previous conversation. This went on for a couple of years.

  But then one day I called her and for a moment she had no idea who I was.

  My heart was shattered.

  When I hung up, Al asked what was wrong, and I sobbed in his arms. My family was losing our sweet mom somewhere in the darkness of dementia that would eventually become Alzheimer’s.

  I immediately grew concerned about Mom driving. During one visit to Perry, I took a ride with her to the grocery story that would prove to be scary and quite revealing.

  Within minutes, Mom ran a red light and almost sideswiped a car.

  Then she made a sharp turn around a curve.

  When I told her what she had just done, she was in complete denial. That’s when I knew her reflexes weren’t what they used to be and that she should definitely not be driving.

  Naturally, Mom disagreed with my assessment.

  Not long after, I got another frightening call from Tina. Mom had been in a car accident. She pulled out from a stop sign and hit an oncoming car. Fortunately, nobody was hurt. Thank God! It could’ve been so much worse.

  Her car was totaled. My brother Jackie, in a call from his home in Ohio, declared this to be good news, that this could give us the opening we were looking for to take her keys away without a big fight. We didn’t want her back on the road anytime soon.

  For Mom, like any elderly person, driving was part of her independence. Simply driving the two miles to the grocery store or post office in downtown Perry represented freedom. Without a car, she would feel virtually marooned at home.

  Unfortunately, the accident took that decision out of her hands. Jackie soon convinced us all that we could get someone to drive Mom where she needed to go. Well, Mom didn’t take the news well. She fell into a debilitating depression for several weeks. No doubt she was mourning the loss of her self-sufficiency. The woman who had always advised her daughters to be independent and take care of themselves would now be dependent on someone else to take care of her. I don’t think there was anything worse in her mind.

  My sister Tina lived nearby, but she couldn’t take care of Mom 24-7. We began to talk about an assisted-living facility or getting in some outside help.

  I couldn’t bear the idea of putting her in a nursing home. I had reported stories on nursing-home abuse and thought of them as harsh warehouses for the elderly, even though I had aunts who were well taken care of in Perry’s Summerhill nursing home. I felt Mom was now stripped of some of her dignity by losing her ability to drive; at least she should be in her own place, where she could do whatever she wanted.

  Al and I talked about it and agreed that since we were blessed to have a solid financial situation, we would pay for whatever assistance Mom needed. Tina agreed to do some research. I knew Mom would be happier in her own home, even though, as time went on, she was less able to communicate.

  Making these types of decisions for a parent can be challenging for anyone, and they can cause a lot of unexpected family turmoil, especially in a large, far-flung family
like mine. We were scattered about in Ohio, Texas, Florida and New York. My siblings and I decided to divvy up what each of us was reasonably able to do and how each of us could help our mom to the best of our ability. All of us had something to contribute to make Mom more comfortable and were happy to do whatever we could. We also made a commitment to make this about her well-being and not about who was doing more or less. We had to put Mom front and center or there would be petty arguments and problems none of us wanted to contend with during this trying time.

  Caring for aging parents was a subject Diane Sawyer, my colleague and close friend, was deeply interested in; we’d had many conversations about our elderly moms and how heartbreaking it is caring for them from afar. In her brilliant way, Diane knew that many people were dealing with the same thing and encouraged me to do a report about it for World News Tonight. What a lifesaver for me! It gave me some great specific ideas of how we could all help one another deal with the emotions and logistics of caring for Mom.

  Tina soon found the perfect caregiver. An old classmate, Doretha Lester, was a home health aide who was looking for a new job. Doretha, a cheerful, outgoing woman with a quick laugh and a sensitive manner, was a dream. She treated Mom beautifully and made life happy and healthy for her. She took great pride in making sure Mom was eating vegetables and dressing every day. She took her out for drives, shopping and even peach picking. Mom was completely happy. But then her knees began to give out, which made it hard for her to walk or get in and out of the car. She eventually needed to use a walker, which slowed her down even more. With this loss of mobility came a loss of self-esteem and positivity that Mom would never recover.

  This went well for a few years. Then one afternoon I received a frantic call from Doretha. Apparently, she had gone into my mother’s bedroom and discovered that the bedclothes were covered in blood. Doretha had nearly fainted at the sight. She told me an ambulance was on its way.