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aide for her, but it wasn’t long before we knew that we had a disaster on our hands anyway. Lillian called to tell us that there was no way that my mother could live independently. We arranged to have her flown back, and, after a number of false starts, I succeeded in finding an apartment for Mom at what was a very nice assisted-living facility called Atria, in Briarcliff Manor. We would visit on an almost weekly basis but watch with difficulty as her memory for people and events deteriorated. Toward the end, I was the only one whom she knew without prompting. Before that, luckily, Danny visited her and recorded an interview with her about her life. To this day, however, I have been unable to get myself to listen to it.
By the time, in 2003, when we placed her in a nursing home in New York City so that she would be close to our apartment, I believe that she had no idea what was happening. She passed away in December, and we buried her next to my father’s grave. Once again, I gave the eulogy, fin- ishing it, as I said earlier, with her words to me when she would tuck me in and kiss me goodnight: “Sleep well, be well, I love you.” (As I write this, I find myself tearing up.)
There were, however, a number of bright spots in the last years that I prefer to remember: On more than one occasion, I reserved a private dining room at Atria for Sunday dinner, and Danny, Peter, and Rachel came. This would cause my mother to light up with happiness, to joke, to laugh, to enjoy, even to do some of the patented dance steps for which she was famous, and, I think, to remember. The menu would be corned beef, roast beef, turkey, and tongue; seeded rye bread, potato salad, and coleslaw; and all of the other usual Jewish delicatessen fixings that we could muster. And that added to the festive atmosphere. You would have thought that the years had not gone by.
This section is one reason that I wrote the early chapters about my folks and, indirectly, why I am writing this book. I would much prefer to remember them when they were young and vibrant, and I’m sad that some of the most vivid images that I have of them relate to their last days. As I’ve said in the Preface, I hope that that will not be how my children remember me.
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