Coffee with Mom

by Mike Glenn

  I can remember driving home from Huntsville after an intense weekend with my mother. Things were piling up, and we were getting close to having to make the decision to move her to Nashville. I guess she was sensing the coming transition, and she was beginning to dig in. She had stopped answering my phone calls. She didn’t want to talk to me anymore, she said. That was because when I talked to her, I was talking about her moving. She had gone through all of her reasons for staying. In my mind, they didn’t come near to cancelling out the reasons she should move.

  Safety trumps friends.

  Healthcare trumps living in the home she loved.

  Living where someone was assuring her safety and well-being twenty-four hours a day certainly trumped me being one hundred miles away and worrying all the time.

  But this was it. Talking was over. We were done discussing the matter, and now, the battle was engaged. She wasn’t going to give up or give in. Neither was I.

  Yet, on this day, I certainly wanted to. I had had it. I had been called every name in the book. Accused of the most heinous crimes and threatened with being reported to the police, being written out of the will, and beaten with a stick. With my mom, none of those were empty threats.

  Who did I think I was to just walk in her house, tell her to pack, and move her to Nashville?

  If I thought she was just going to throw her hands up and go without a fight, I was sadly mistaken.

  My daddy would be so ashamed if he only knew how I was acting. What kind of lying, thieving son was I? Did I think all her stuff just belonged to me now, and I could do whatever I wanted with it?

  “Oh, no,” my mom had said. “This was going to be a war.”

  And I was tired of fighting it. I called Jeannie on the way home and just unloaded on her. I was tired. I was so angry and frustrated, and I wanted out. I had done my best, but I was tired of fighting Mom. I was tired of being yelled at, and I was tired of yelling at her. If she wanted to stay in Huntsville, I’d just let her stay. If something happened—and something would have happened—I would deal with it when it did.

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Jeannie waited for a moment, and then she quietly said, “That’s not you.”

  Once again, my wife had quietly, but firmly, called me out.

  This wasn’t about my mom.

  This was about me.

  The question I was answering was what kind of son am I?

  We knew who my mother was. She was the oldest daughter of Leo and Velma Bustin. Her father wanted a boy, but Mom was the closest he would ever come to having a son. He gave her the nickname “Bob” (short for Barbara), and Mom learned her carpentry skills from him. Mom could build anything, understood how to build a house, and she designed three of the houses we lived in. In the others, she designed and contracted out major renovations.

  My dad called me one time and told me Mom was spending too much money on one of her house projects. “Dad,” I said, “Mom is going to have a project. It’s either the house or you.” Dad went and bought her more drywall.

  Mom was the woman who had formed a partnership with my dad to take on the world. They had won. Against all odds, my parents grabbed their share of the American dream. They were hardworking, creative, responsible, deep in their faith, and committed to their friends and community. Life was hard. Get over it. You could have or do anything you were willing to work for, and if you weren’t willing to work for it, then quit talking about wanting it.

  Coffee with Mom: “Tuck your shirttail in. Going around like that makes it look like you didn’t come from a good home.”

  That’s who my mom was.

  And I was their son.

  The summer after high school graduation, I got a job working third shift in a local cotton mill. I went in at 11:00 in the morning, and I got off at 7:00 in the evening. In between, I cleaned lint off weaving machines. The work was hot, loud, and dirty. I’ve never felt that bad in all my life. I was tired all the time. I was nauseated most of the summer. I was off schedule. I had lost my days and nights. I went to work, and I came home to sleep. I got up and went to work, and it started all over again.

  I wanted to quit. I wanted my summer back. “All my friends are . . .” but Mom and Dad never let me finish the sentence. They didn’t care what all my friends were doing. What they cared about was raising me. I had given my word I would show up for work. That foreman was counting on me to show up like I said I would. No, I would not quit. I would keep my word.

  According to my dad, I was a Glenn, and Glenns were known to be men of honor and character. The way my dad described our family you would have thought we had descended from European royalty. I was disappointed when I realized we were only second and third generation sharecropping trailer trash from south Mississippi.

  My mom had taken me to countless ball games, but she always waited for me to run back onto the field before she would call me off to go to Wednesday prayer meeting. That would give her long enough to lecture the coaches, umpires, and everyone in the stands that the YMCA, an organization with “Christian” in its name, shouldn’t be scheduling baseball games on Wednesday nights when Christians went to church. It would have never occurred to my mother there may have been other Christians besides Baptists.

  That’s who I was.

  Now I was having to answer this question again. The question in front of me wasn’t, “Who is Barbara?” We knew the answer to that one. The question was, “Who is Mike?” Was I the kind of son my parents had raised me to be? Was I who I was supposed to be? Was I who I believed myself to be?

  Was I the kind of man who did what was right even when I wasn’t recognized for doing right? Doing right was its own reward, according to my parents. No one gets a parade for simply doing the right thing. I certainly wasn’t getting a parade for this.

  Was I the kind of man who takes care of his responsibilities without being told? Or, would I have to be guilted and manipulated into caring for my mom? Would I care for my mom even if she didn’t want me to? Was I strong enough to take her on and win? Was I courageous enough to keep fighting for her best, even when I was fighting her too? Could I do what was best for her even when, in the moment, it might not be best for me?

  Now I was beginning to understand. This was no longer about my mom’s illness. Now, it was about me. I was answering the question, “What kind of man am I?” Was I man enough to do what had to be done? Would I keep my promise to my father even when my mom was fighting me with every ounce of energy in her body?

  I had two sons watching me care for my mother. What was I teaching them? What would they learn from me about doing hard things? Right things? Loving things?

  The switch had flipped for me. Right or wrong, this was my decision to make. I was my mother’s son. No one knew her better than I did. No one loved her more.

  She was my responsibility. She was my privilege. I would do what was best for her or die trying.

  And sometimes, I thought I was coming close to dying, but I got it done. We got her moved, although I really can’t remember how we did it. It’s all a blur. I’ve had friends who have been in combat. The way they describe the surreal slow motion of watching the battle unfold in front of them is exactly what I remember about moving Mom. I don’t remember thinking. I just remember doing what I needed to do in the moment.

  I would be strong enough to do whatever I had to do. We got Mom to Morning Pointe. I told her she was spending the night there. I remember pushing away from her and telling her it was decided. She was going to stay there, and she’d better get used to it. I remember driving away and looking back at her waving her arms and yelling at me as I drove off.

  From that moment on, I would understand that every decision was mine to make. Others would have their thoughts and opinions, but the decision and the responsibility were all mine. Mom was going to be mad at me no matter what
.

  Either I abandoned her and never came to see her, or I kidnapped her and imprisoned her in Nashville.

  Either I had stolen everything from her, or I didn’t know where anything was.

  Either I took her to the doctor or I was meddling in her business and I should just leave well enough alone.

  Either I took her to church with me, or I was forcing her to go to a church where she didn’t know anybody and hated the preacher (me).

  I couldn’t win. I was never going to win. Mom wasn’t going to be happy no matter what I did. Her “happiness” was no longer the goal; her health and well-being were. Maybe I couldn’t do anything about her mental health, but I didn’t have to destroy my own. Maybe Mom couldn’t live with me, but the question now was, What did I have to do to be able to live with myself?

  Why would I do this? Because that’s who I am. That’s who my mom had raised me to be, and that’s who I would be now.

  “Mom, pack your bags. You’re going to Nashville with me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday, and it’s best if you go back with me today.”

  “Well, what if it’s not best for me?”

  “You’ll adjust. Now, get your stuff. We need to go.”

  “When will you bring me back?”

  “We’ll have to see what the doctor says.”

  “I’m not falling for that old trick. You’re going to take me up there and put me away, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m going to take you to the doctor. The doctor will probably want to run more tests or make another appointment. You know how doctors are.”

  “Then, will you bring me home?”

  “Like I said, we’ll see what the doctor says.”

  “I’m not going until you tell me you’ll bring me home.”

  “I’ll bring you home, but we’ve got to go.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Yes, you are. Once I get in that car, you’ll never bring me back.”

  “Yes, I will,” I smiled. “Remember you’re going to be buried next to Dad. I’ll have to bring you home sooner or later.”

  “I’m not going. I’ll just go to the doctor here.”

  “Yes, you’re going, and Mom, you just need to get in the car. I’m not going to change my mind on this.”

  “Who made you so stubborn?”

  “You did. Remember, Mom, I’m your son. I’m not Dad’s son. I’m your son.”

  “And I see where I made several mistakes.”

  “Well, you might have, but pack your stuff or I will, and there’s no telling what I’ll pack for you.”

  She finally stomped off toward her room like a teenager throwing a tantrum.

  I could hear her talking to me as she packed.

  Coffee with Mom: “Of course I’m proud of you. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t raise a son I couldn’t be proud of?”

  It didn’t matter. I didn’t care what she said. My mind was made up. She was moving to Nashville, and no, she wasn’t coming back.

  That’s what I had decided.

  Why? Because that’s the kind of son she raised me to be, and that’s the kind of man I am.

  Chapter 12

  When My Mom Cussed Me Out

  Coffee with Mom: My mom just called someone a “ring-tailed tooter.” I have no idea what that is, but it doesn’t sound good.

  I can still remember my reflection in the bathroom mirror as my mother washed out my mouth with soap. I was eleven or twelve years old, and Mom had overheard me and my neighborhood friends talking about the new words we were learning at school. Now, mind you, it was completely an academic exercise. We weren’t actually cursing at anyone. We were just talking about how you pronounce the words, what they meant, and how you would use them properly in daily conversation.

  Mom didn’t appreciate the distinction.

  My mom was a conservative, Bible-believing, church-going Christian. Not only that, she was a strong Southern lady. There were two forces coming to bear on this moment: first, her cemented-in-place fundamentalist Christian beliefs; and two, her concern with what the neighbors might think. I lost out on both accounts.

  My friends and I were all surprised when Mom opened the front door, politely asked them to leave, and then, firmly told me to get inside. I was in trouble. Both my friends and I knew it. Mom shut the door behind her, and the interrogation began.

  Where had I learned to talk like that? Why was I talking like that? Who was I trying to impress? Didn’t I know language like that was the way ignorant people talked? Was I ignorant? Things had names. Body parts had names. Was I too stupid not to know what to call parts of my own body?

  I didn’t answer. She wasn’t asking questions. She was prosecuting her case. I was guilty, and here was all the evidence she needed to pronounce my sentence.

  “Your mouth is filthy. You know what I do with filthy things? I clean filthy things, and right now, I’m going to clean out your mouth with soap! Get to the bathroom.”

  Part of the punishment was having to walk down the hall to your own execution. I went to the bathroom knowing what was coming.

  And it did. She washed out my mouth with Dial soap. I’ll never forget the taste of that stuff.

  I guess these days, she would be accused of child abuse. My mother wouldn’t have cared. Her child wasn’t going to use that kind of language even if it meant she’d have to go to jail.

  There were several things that just weren’t allowed in my home. I couldn’t disrespect my parents in any way. I couldn’t talk back. I couldn’t skip school or skip church. And, under no circumstances, could I curse. There was never an excuse or reason to curse. Hit your finger with a hammer? That’s no reason to curse. Get cut off in traffic? Still no reason to use that kind of language. There were plenty of words in the English language. Hundreds of wonderful words for every occasion, and I could use any of those words to express myself. Cursing was an admission of stupidity and laziness. No son of hers would ever be accused of such.

  And then, Mom cussed me out. I chose the word cussed intentionally. There is a difference between cursing and cussing. Cursing means you said some inappropriate words or used some “colorful” language. Cussing, on the other hand, comes from the bones. This is where you’re calling for some kind of divine retribution against the target of your words. You want God to do certain things to your rival in unpleasant, painful, and unnatural ways. Make no mistake, on this day, Mom was “cussing” me out.

  One of the things Alzheimer’s does is it puts to sleep those gatekeepers at the front doors of your mind that keep you from doing or saying things you know you shouldn’t do. There are gatekeepers that make sure you don’t hold your breath too long. There are gatekeepers that keep you from eating spoiled food. Then, there are gatekeepers to keep you from saying everything you feel like saying in the moment.

  My mom had lost those last two gatekeepers. Whatever she thought, she said. Whatever came to my mother’s mind was exactly what she was saying. There was no hesitation and certainly no filters. Then, having said what she was thinking, she had no understanding or thought of the consequences of whatever she had said. She would say something, and then that moment would be over. She would have moved on, and the next moment of her life would have no connection to the previous moment. Each moment stood on its own, independent of any of the moments around it. If you said something to her about what she had just said, she may tell you that she never said such a thing. She would have moved on.

  Part of it was the illness itself. My mom suffered two types of brain illnesses: Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. While there are a lot of medical implications in all of this, what it meant for me is Mom declined much faster and much more completely than we had e
xpected. Mom lost the ability to control the way her thoughts and words were connected. If she thought something, she was going to say it. That part of your brain that kept you from saying things that might hurt people’s feelings or that might be inappropriate to the moment, well, Mom lost that. She was always blunt and outspoken. Now, she was just cruel. She was mean in what she said and how she said it, and what’s more, she didn’t seem to care.

  Once, when we were sitting at breakfast, she looked across the room and then asked me,

  “Am I at a place that helps people?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I guess you could say that.”

  “Well that makes sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Look around. See how fat these people are? I thought maybe I was in a place that hired fat people and helped them lose weight while they work here. Well, that’s good to know. I can help some of these people.”

  “Mom!”

  “What? Don’t you think these people need help?”

  My mom would have never said that, even if she thought it. Remarks like that wouldn’t have been lady-like or Christian. She used to say, “Wouldn’t you feel ashamed if someone heard you? You don’t have to say everything you think, and rarely, if ever, do you have to apologize for not saying anything bad.”

  On the other hand, my mom with Alzheimer’s would say such a thing. She did say these things and a lot more . . . and she said them a lot.

  Coffee with Mom: “There are things an adult son should never have to do for his mother, but I had to . . . and I did.”

  Alzheimer’s doesn’t leave a mark. For all I could tell, my mother was still normal . . . well, as close to normal as she ever got. There was no bruise. No change in her facial expressions. No pain. Her eyes still focused on me when she talked to me. Her smile still expressed a little hint of mischief. She was, as far as I could see, still my mom—looking like she had always looked but saying things I had never heard her say.