The Long Goodbye   

“My beautiful, talented, intelligent mother is disappearing before my eyes,” my sister Molly said.    

Mother turned 106 last October. For the past seven years, my three siblings—Brian, 83; Robin, 78; Molly, 72—and I have watched her slowly fade. At 85, I’ve had her loving care the longest.    

The decline began in 2018, the year she turned 100. Still driving, she renewed her license and picked me up from the airport for visits to her San Antonio home of 60 years. She brushed off my offers to take the wheel.    

We were a military family. Brian was born at Goodfellow Field in San Angelo, Robin in Puerto Rico, Molly near the Pentagon. My father, an Air Force colonel, had 11 assignments, with my mother hosting officers’ wives and dignitaries—including General and Mrs. Eisenhower after World War II.    

Seven years ago, worsening glaucoma ended her driving. Six years ago, she gave up sewing, after decades of making our clothes and custom draperies. Five years ago, a forgotten pot of eggs ended her cooking. Four years ago, she stopped going out, except for family dinners at Sarita’s Mexican Restaurant—Margarita and two beef chalupas, every time.    

Three years ago, blindness ended her Scrabble games. Two years ago, balance issues ended her driveway walks. One year ago, weakness forced her to give up walking altogether. Now totally blind, deaf, and without a sense of smell, she requires round-the-clock care from family and hospice aides.    

Her body remains strong, but her mind often drifts to earlier days: riding horseback in Arizona, summers at the Chalfont Hotel in New Jersey, or walking through Virginia woods. She sometimes believes a room is full of grandchildren—or a white rabbit.    

She dreads birthdays, never wanting to live this long. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to die when I’m so healthy,” she once said. Still, her humor survives. Recently, “seeing” her grandmother across the room, she called out: “Grandma, come get in bed with me! No, don’t bother with the bathroom—in Texas they let you pee in your pants!”    

Even in the long goodbye, she can still make us laugh.

~Susan Lynch