Before we moved in to take care of my Mom, before we were married even, Mom already sensed what was happening to her. She started compiling a list of homes where she could go and show them to us whenever the opportunity arose. A proud woman, my Mom. After Pop died we declared we soon would move in to take care of her instead.
Mom called me up to the privacy of her room one day to discuss the matter. She was standing up as I sat on her bed. She cautioned me that things were wrong with her and moving in with her would not be a good idea for me. I made it perfectly clear that did not matter. She responded by clutching me to her breast, a strikingly passionate response which was totally out of character for her. Pop had been the emotional, passionate one in the family. Mom was an intellect, though a pleasant and endearing one.
They say sons marry their mothers. To some extent that was true for me. While I would contrast Mom’s “coolly logical” with Cindy’s “warm kindness,” both were/are smart women, both are a little short on affection. Fortunately, one of those affectionate times just occurred.
The day after we returned for Florida, Cindy mentioned “we should go to Florida,” forgetting for a moment we already had been. There is a trade-off. In Florida there is greater potential for sun and exercise; in Connecticut there is greater potential for socializing, an ingredient for brain health that I will cover next.
These are uncertain times. I never know what the best course of action is. Without the “sun and fun” of Florida, and without sufficient social contact as of yet (I’m working on it), Cindy becomes sad. Yesterday morning she cried at the breakfast table. I abandoned the planned schedule (music was to be next) to watch a few episodes of Cheers. That and the Big Bang Theory are the two sitcoms that get the biggest laughs out of her.
The strategy worked to a point, but she became sad again as soon as we stopped watching. I suggested a piano lesson next, but she declined. I then suggested we exercise to one of her Denise Austin videos. She agreed reluctantly.
The videos feature a perky blonde that is part instructor, many parts cheerleader, in a way that easily lends to caricature. Cindy exercised to these videos after her pregnancies, though she really cannot do them now. She moves an arm here, shakes a leg there, while I huff and puff along. The videos are good for Cindy because they bring back memories for her and provide abundant material for me to ham it up.
“You can do it!” I’ll say to Cindy while mimicking and hyping the already hyped Denise. “She’s so proud of us!!”
“Lift, lift! Reach, reach!”
“You’re beautiful!!”
This time I kept up a steady stream of caricatures, never failing to draw a smile. At one point Cindy decisively stepped over to me (she never moves decisively these days) and gave me a kiss. This was as astonishing to me as when Mom clutched me to her breast, not just as a display of affection, but as a new behavior in stunning contrast to the typical regression back to the old and safe. Cindy’s mood was fine the rest of the day. Just as with Mom thirty years earlier, the right decision was made, with an assist from Denise.
