A large contingent of family celebrated Dad’s 95th birthday in June at El Portal, his favorite Mexican restaurant in Pasadena.
Children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren toasted him with tributes both comic and tender. The first toast, however, was for Mom. She was safely ensconced in their retirement center’s memory care unit nearby.
Mom’s dementia was moderate at the time of the Altadena Fire in January. She and Dad were still living in Monte Cedro’s independent living building.
The complex did not burn, but the trauma and confusion of the chaotic evacuation and nearly nine weeks away took their toll. We resettled her in a room in the memory unit in mid-April.
The first few days, I attended group activities with Mom. In the first meeting we sat beside a resident who looked like a promising friend for Mom. She had her newspaper open to the crossword puzzle, like Mom always had her nose in a book.
I soon realized, however, that the crossword puzzle was there mainly for dignity; little internal work was taking place. Mom’s books had functioned for the same purpose for the last couple of years.
Mom continues to wind down; she rarely is cogent enough now to socialize in the main living area. But she has significant mysterious moments of clarity.
The other day, I was buzzed in by a staff member named Matilde, so I entered her room absent-mindedly singing “Waltzing Matilda.”
Mom immediately started humming along. Soon she acceded to a wheelchair ride out in the garden courtyard. The sunshine and warm air further buoyed her mood, despite the pain of physical movement.
Dad visits each morning and afternoon. He reads her the paper, rubs her back, and encourages her to accompany him to the garden. His emotional suffering is as great as her physical and mental ailments.
When I try to coax out his feelings, he shrugs, “It is what it is.”
For sure, life is better for the able-bodied and able-minded. Dad went joyriding in his car on his 95th birthday.
At least that’s what it seemed like to my sister and me. We called each other in distress about whether his driver’s license was valid.
“Is your birthday the last day you can drive on an expiring license or the first day you cannot?” AI was no clearer on this than we were. In any case, the car was sold a few days later with Dad’s begrudging acquiescence.
At his birthday celebration at El Portal, the staff treated him like cherished family. We enjoyed table serenades by the mariachis, several versions of the birthday song, and churros for the table.
On the final mariachi visit Dad requested his and mom’s favorite song, a Paraguayan ballad called “Recuerdos de Ypacaria.”
My sister and I were teary-eyed at the familiar tune, but Dad was all smiles. Maybe the margaritas played a part.
That night he was happy to party. El Portal’s proprietor Abel Ramirez came by to congratulate him, presenting him with a personal flan à la mode.
Dad grinned at him. “Five more to go!” he enthused gamely.
Later I looked up the song’s translation, revealing a love song which becomes a lament:
“I wonder where you are now, young maiden
Because your soft singing doesn’t reach me
Where are you now?
My being loves you madly.”
Mom was a couple miles, yet a million miles away from Dad for his birthday dinner. But he was back at her side the next morning, reading her the paper while she alternately dozed and stared at the ceiling.