Free Caring For Mary by Nicholas Andrefsky

Preface  
    I n the winter of 2011, my dear friend Beth and her sister Taisia were faced with the sudden loss of their mother’s caregiver. Since I was facing hernia surgery, which meant giving up my job as a camp caretaker, I gladly accepted the offer to take care of Mary.
    Because of the dementia and extreme memory loss, she really didn’t remember that I had known her and the family for more than twenty-five years. This woman of great intellectual prowess was reduced to repeating the same phrases, asking the same questions, and living the same life day in and day out.
    Historically, Mary did not like me. Mine had been the smallest of slights many years earlier; it had to do with a pork dish, but I digress. The simple truth was that she didn’t like many people outside (and some inside ) the family. She tolerated all with vague, nondescript pleasantries and would criticize them when they were gone. This was my charge. However, there were a few advantages I had at the outset that immediately ingratiated me to this occasionally hateful old woman.
     
    1)I was a man—a man who knew the way to the heart of a narcissist.
    2)I was Italian, and I sang Italian songs that she knew.
    3)She and I were Pavarotti fans.
    4)Humor was—and is—my favored weapon of choice.
    5)Not being a normally patient man, I would have lots of time to practice.
    I was not a professional caregiver. I was just a guy who knew enough to make the lives of my dearest friends a bit easier. The following is a short volume on how you, too, can care for a lost mind.
    According to Taisia, Mary’s younger daughter:
     
    Mary is my mother. She’s had this role for the last forty-seven years. I was a midlife surprise. She was forty-two when the doctor told her that she was pregnant.
    She said, “Well? What are we going to do about it?”
    He replied, “What do you mean? In nine months, you’re going to have a baby!”
    Sheesh, Ma! No wonder I needed therapy.
    But my mother was one of my best friends. And she was beautiful. I used to pore over pictures of her in her teens. A mane of blue-black, shiny, wavy hair; soulful brown eyes; a gorgeous figure; and an even more gorgeous smile. She still is beautiful to me.
    In my teens, I put her through the prerequisite hell that a lot of moms may go through. I was rebellious. I stayed out too late, talked back, and disobeyed. I was always a cut up and a bit of a wisenheimer, so I’ve had my share of being chased around the house with various household items: her slipper, the fly swatter, and the ever-dreaded wooden spoon!
    Her patience for and tolerance of my antics may have wavered at times, but her love for me never did.
    I used to hide little love notes in the things on her dresser. She’s kept every one of them.
    My father died of cancer in 1989. Popi and my mom were best friends, and his passing devastated all of us, but especially my mother. They were married for thirty-seven years. About six months after his death, I was offered a promising job with General Electric in Richmond, Virginia, over four hundred miles away. I was afraid of leaving the town I had grown up in, not knowing anyone there, and was afraid of the new job. I was also afraid of leaving my mother—to whom I had spoken every day of my life.
    She said, “Tizzy, you have to do this! Nothing ventured, nothing gained! Give it a year, at least. If you end up hating it, just come home!” I packed my belongings—and off I went. We never went a day without talking.
    I’d say, “How are you, Mommy?”
    She’d reply, “Oh, I’m just fine, dear!” She was excited for me. My beautiful mother was my biggest cheerleader.
    On every holiday, I’d make the long trek up I-95 to see my mom and Beth (Sissy). I later learned from Sissy that my mom had missed me terribly and had been very saddened that I had left. It always struck me that she never told me how sad she really was—out of fear I’d feel guilty.
    Twenty-two years later, I’m still living