Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  I had no idea what to think but the worst—my mom was surely dying.

  I needed to get to Georgia as soon as possible.

  I hung up the phone and headed to the airport.

  I was a wreck, but I also knew I had to get ahold of myself in case decisions had to be made.

  All I could pray for was that I would get there in time to say good-bye.

  By the time my plane landed, I had more information. Mom had ruptured a bowel and they were operating on her.

  She’d had no symptoms; it just happened suddenly. It’s often unclear what causes a bowel rupture, and Mom’s doctor couldn’t tell us why it happened, but it can be fatal, especially if you lose a lot of blood, which my mother had.

  Mom was eighty-six years old and was having major surgery; under the best of circumstances, this would be a dicey situation. But Mom’s health wasn’t perfect to begin with, so I was gravely concerned. Tina was there at Mom’s side, with Doretha holding down the fort, but I wanted—needed—to be there too.

  As I got into my rental car and headed to the hospital, I called Ruhanna Neal, a dear friend since college. Ruhanna is the most spiritual and positive woman I know. She’s the one I call first during a challenge, and I needed her now. I asked her to pray with me as I drove to Perry.

  For ten minutes she soothed me with her words. “You are going to get there and see your mom. You need to believe that you are going to get there to hold her hand and that you have done the best job a daughter can do. You have been there in ways that others wish they could be there with their moms. You go there in peace, knowing you have taken good care of her and given back to her in so very many ways over the years. Don’t think about anything else.”

  After we hung up I found myself talking, crying and praying to God for a miracle all the rest of the way to the hospital.

  When I arrived I learned that my mom had come through the surgery and was miraculously doing very well. Naturally I was thrilled at the wonderful news, but my joy quickly turned to panic when I walked into Mom’s room. She looked absolutely helpless with tubes down her throat, surrounded by wires and monitors, unable to talk, heavily sedated and bandaged. I fought back tears. But when she saw me, she reached out for my hand, held it and squeezed me tight. On some level, she knew who I was, why I was there! Even if she couldn’t say my name, she knew I was someone who loved her, and I knew she loved me.

  I leaned in close and whispered, “I’m here, Mom, and I love you.”

  I wanted to scream it from the hilltops. I needed her to know she wasn’t alone. I was there to hold her hand, rub her cheeks and just be with her. That brought me peace, and I hope it gave her something too.

  I stayed by her side until the surgeon came in to give me an update.

  “She’s one tough bird!” he said.

  “Yes, she is.”

  She had made it through the surgery and was expected to make a full physical recovery. But her mental capacity was never going to be what it once was.

  I sent Tina home and clung by my mother’s side for the next several days, making it a point to get to know her doctors and nurses and talk to all of the people who were taking such great care of her. I wanted them to know how appreciative I was of their kindness and compassion.

  I spent each night in Mom’s room, waking up every couple of hours when the nurses came in to check on her. I kept thinking about all the times my mom had been there for me and the myriad ways she had contributed to me as a person, as a woman. I thought of her those many years ago wiping my nose and making me feel special. Even though I was exhausted, I was filled with contentment and love. I felt like this was my opportunity to give Mom all of the love I have for her in the sunset of her life. These are moments I rarely get, being so far away.

  During the day I took on the role of advocate and became her voice since she couldn’t speak. I could see she was in pain. Whenever the nurses moved her, she would wince and moan. The trachea tube down her throat bothered her and therefore it bothered me. I became Shirley MacLaine from Terms of Endearment. (Well, I never had to ratchet it up quite like she did in the movie, but I would have if it had become necessary!) I badgered and complained and hounded the nurses and doctors . . . until finally the doctors removed the tube. Mom instantly become calmer and looked relieved. I felt like I had shepherded her to the summit of Kilimanjaro—accomplishing something for her that she couldn’t quite do for herself, getting her to a place where she could now begin to heal.

  It was the day before Christmas Eve and I called Al to let him know I thought I’d be coming home soon. I felt as if I had been able to minister to my mom during a difficult time and the sun was slowly peeking over the horizon. It was time to get back home to my own family, who needed me too.

  Throughout, Al was loving, patient and inherently understanding of my need to be by my mom’s side. He assured me the kids were doing well and gave me peace of mind so I didn’t feel torn about where to be. I needed this private time, uninterrupted and undisturbed. When Tina offered to relieve me at the hospital, I declined. I needed this time with Mom. Tina had always been there for doctor visits or emergencies; now I wanted to take a turn. I felt like at any moment it could be time to say good-bye; either way, it was a chance to be there for my mother in a time of difficulty, pain and crisis. And Al was my rock back home, making it possible.

  I stayed at the hospital for seventy-two hours, leaving her room only to get a bite to eat or to take a quick shower at my hotel. Otherwise, I was right there, holding Mom’s hand, telling her I loved her.

  • • •

  A few months after she left the hospital, we finally made the difficult decision to move Mom to a nursing home. She has remained in good hands at Summerhill for the past five years. Doretha and Tina are always right there, so Mom is never alone.

  It has been beyond difficult. No matter what I’m doing, each day is filled with a bit of heaviness, thinking of Mom. Doretha keeps me updated, often texting me sweet pictures of Mom sitting in the morning sun. I smile, often through tears.

  I steel myself for visits and minister to Mom as best I can, wheeling her into the nursing home garden, watching old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show in her room or taking her to the rec room for a game of bingo. I often bring Leila and Nicky with me. We’ll bring Mom flowers or a new blanket or nightgown, little things that hopefully bring her some pleasure. Our visits can be long and boring for them, but I hope they’re learning the beauty of caring for loved ones without expecting something in return.

  At times Mom looks at me blankly, unsure of who I am. But other times, when I grab onto her soft, wrinkled hand, she will squeeze my hand back, and I am convinced she knows I am there. Her warm touch is . . . healing. These quiet moments feel quite powerful. I feel the true closeness I always craved from Mom. As she looks deep into my eyes, I feel that finally I have found that soul-to-soul connection I always longed for. Though she speaks very little now, Mom communicates her love for me. Words aren’t necessary.

  8

  I Am Who I Am

  AL

  Everyone Has Their Kombucha

  Every guy has that one thing they obsess over, whether it’s sports, the remote control or their car. For me, it’s an amazing elixir called GT’s Gingerade Kombucha. What is it? you ask. Kombucha is a fermented tea, thought to be Chinese in origin, that’s said to be an antioxidant, probiotic, anti-inflammatory, digestive superfood. I can’t attest to all that. All I know is . . . Daddy likes!

  While Kombucha comes in a whole raft of flavors, my favorite is the Gingerade. It’s naturally carbonated, like a pungent ginger ale, or maybe I should say ginger beer—there are actually trace amounts of alcohol in each bottle. In fact, early on GT realized the fermentation process was running amok and the beverage had as much alcohol as a low-alcohol beer! Can you imagine knocking back a couple at work? “Man, I feel great! Where has this Kom
bucha been all my life?” Meantime your coworkers are talking about you behind your back as you get wasted at your cubicle. Of course, it would cease to be funny if you had one or two bottles, then got in a car to drive home or pick up the kids at soccer practice.

  Well, they stopped production to get a handle on the problem and a month or so later resumed making it. Interestingly enough, they’ve taken lemons and made lemonade . . . or hard lemonade, to be precise. The company now bottles the high-octane Kombucha in black bottles for purchase by those twenty-one years and older.

  To liven up its ginger flavor even more, I like to add my own fresh ginger. I started with a tablespoon or so per bottle. Little by little I added more, so that today, I combine about one quarter cup of chopped ginger with a twelve-ounce bottle of Kombucha. I drink an average of four bottles of Kombucha a day and go through about ten pounds of ginger and two cases of Kombucha a week. Did I mention I like Kombucha?

  For whatever reason, and I can’t explain it, my love of Kombucha has caused quite a stir in our family. While I know they’re very supportive and happy to see that I have taken control of my health by changing my diet, now they tease me about being addicted to Kombucha, like an addict who gives up drinking but takes up smoking!

  DEBORAH

  Everywhere we go, Kombucha comes with us. Al and I were at a parent-teacher conference and he pulled a bottle out of his bag and pop, twisted off the cap. It is an unmistakable sound, like a cork coming out of a bottle of champagne.

  As soon as we get in the car, Al automatically opens a bottle. It’s almost Pavlovian. His car has a cup holder, so I don’t mind it as much, but my car doesn’t. Whenever I hear that pop, I quickly say, “Not in the car!” because I don’t want it to spill.

  While he started off putting a little fresh ginger in to fortify the taste, he now adds so much ginger it’s like “Have a little Kombucha with your ginger!”

  It’s a running gag in our house. It’s like watching Al walk around with a pacifier; every time we look at him, there’s that bottle. It’s fine that he loves his Kombucha, really, but maybe he could rein it in—a little?

  AL

  My feeling is that if what I am doing isn’t hurting my health or causing harm to my family, what’s the problem?

  I don’t gamble, don’t smoke cigars, stay home instead of hitting the links or the bars with the boys.

  I have one vice.

  One!

  Kombucha.

  Deal with it!

  There are far worse things in life to worry about. If it makes me feel good and I’m not hurting you guys, just let me have my Kombucha!

  And yet my love of Kombucha continues to rile everyone up because, of all things, it takes up too much space in the refrigerator. Why can’t my bottles of Kombucha be lined up with the other, lesser liquids like juice and milk? And even if I move my Kombucha out of sight to the vegetable or fruit bin, just the thought of the Kombucha residing in the communal fridge drives my family to distraction.

  So what did my dear wife do? She ordered a refrigerator just for my stash of Kombucha and fresh ginger and put it in the basement.

  THE BASEMENT!

  Seriously?

  Now I’m like the guy who has to go out on the porch to smoke his cigars. Which, as I mentioned, I don’t do!

  Why should I have to go down a flight of stairs every time I want to quench my thirst just so my wife and children don’t have to see my bottles of Kombucha?

  Then it dawned on me. Just like the fine folks at GT’s Kombucha took lemons and made lemonade, I suddenly saw this basement fridge as my new best friend. Why? Now I have two places to keep my beloved drink! I use the basement fridge to stock up on more Kombucha and extra ginger.

  Maybe Deborah hit on something. Since we live in a four-story brownstone, maybe I should have a fridge on every floor, Kombucha within reach, no matter where I am in the house. Maybe I’ll get one of those flying drones to deliver it to me, straight from the fridge.

  Yesss!

  And though I know my love of Kombucha grates on my family, for the most part, they have learned to back off and just let me have it—as long as they don’t have to see the evidence in the form of bottle caps left on the kitchen counter or excess grated ginger. It isn’t a lot to ask, so I do my best to be conscientious and oblige.

  There are lots of things I can overlook and have been willing to bend on throughout my marriage.

  Kombucha isn’t one of them.

  In many ways, we all have our “Kombucha.”

  For my wife, it’s clothes and shoes.

  At the end of the day, I am not going to change her obsession for shopping or hitting sample sales with a passion. She’s not harming anyone, so what am I going to accomplish by coming after her for it?

  Nothing.

  I could easily go into her closet and pull out mounds of clothes she hasn’t worn for a couple of years.

  Me, I have two rules when it comes to clothes and shoes. For every one thing that comes in, one has to go out. Ties, shoes, suits, shirts, underwear (yes, contrary to popular belief, guys do buy new underwear at least once a decade, whether we need it or not)—all fall under that rule. The outgoing gets donated, while the incoming finds a nice, neat, orderly home. The other rule is, if I haven’t worn it in a year, I don’t really need it. Once a season I have the urge to purge.

  Deborah, on the other hand, says that she becomes attached to the clothes, the shoes, the handbags. How can she get rid of them? It’s like abandoning her children. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she does have attachment issues with these clothes. Although I could harp on her, make her feel guilty or barrage her with nonstop commentary on her fashion “hoarding,” I don’t.

  Is that going to promote marital harmony?

  What do you think?

  Is it worth scoring some cheap jokes at my wife’s expense if it will come back to bite me when I am trying to score that night?

  Learning to accept, tolerate and love your partner’s foibles maintains peace and harmony in your relationship. Those quirks are still going to grate on you, but don’t let them break you. Instead of focusing on the negative, remember to look at the whole package—the big picture. There may be a couple of things that bug the crap out of you about the person you share a bed with, but guess what. At heart they’re good—and anyway, no matter how much complaining you do, they’re unlikely to change. And you wanna know something? You’re no walk in the park either. So maybe, just maybe, if you cut your spouse some slack, they might return the favor.

  THE ROKER FAMILY

  Does This Sound Familiar?

  LEILA

  My dad is a really slow driver, which makes everyone in our family a little crazy. And my mom likes to tell everyone how to drive—even New York City cabdrivers. If they’re not going the right way, you can bet she will let them know. And if she doesn’t like how you’re driving, she will correct you.

  You see, my mom believes in short honks of the horn and Dad believes in one long honk. That pretty much sums up my parents in a nutshell.

  Little things happen during most every family outing that inevitably create a silent car ride because my parents are mad at each other over their driving differences.

  “Well, do you want to drive?” Dad asks.

  “No, it’s fine,” Mom replies, even though we all know she’s seething inside.

  “Then I don’t need to hear your comments,” Dad snaps back.

  DEBORAH

  Whether it’s Al driving too slowly or his aggressive response to other drivers, his behavior behind the wheel makes me nuts.

  If another driver cuts you off—and I don’t mean threatens your life, but maybe moves over—Al feels the need to beep the horn in that long, crass New York way—HOOOOOONNNNK. I know I am splitting hairs, but if someone does that to me, I simply go, beep-beep. />
  To me there is a difference.

  Beep-beep means “watch it,” as opposed to HOOOONNNKK, which means “I’m really pissed off.”

  I will say, “Honey, why did you do that?”

  “That guy was about to kill me,” Al dramatically replies.

  When, in actuality, the car just moved slightly over into our lane.

  AL

  I have come to the simple conclusion that it’s easier not to drive, especially if it’s Deborah’s car. I just don’t want to drive anymore.

  DEBORAH

  Don’t say another word!

  AL

  We fight every time I drive and therefore, you know what? I give in!

  DEBORAH

  Fight? We don’t fight. I’d say . . . it’s more of a skirmish.

  AL

  It annoys me.

  LEILA

  Pappers, you need to learn how to tune it out like I do. You internalize your feelings, and you shouldn’t do that.

  AL

  I have to keep my mouth shut because it never stops. The picking is a constant part of my life. The only way to avoid the endless “tips,” “suggestions” and gentle “corrections” is simply not to put myself in that position.

  LEILA

  Or you can just nod in agreement, say okay and do what you want anyway, like I do.

  AL

  No. That doesn’t work when you’re in a car. You see, when you’re in a car, you’ve got no place to go. You’re stuck. You can’t walk out of the room, close your bedroom door and hide.

  DEBORAH

  Oh, Al. It’s not like I’m yelling at you!

  AL

  No! It’s worse. If it was only a moment of yelling or mere silence, it would be fine. It’s the constant pick, pick, pick that never stops that I can’t take!