Wednesdays With Rita
by Paul Kotz
My mom is hilarious.
We move from room to room for macular degeneration treatments.
“Hey. What is that?” she opens with.
She is pointing to a woman’s tattoo of a dolphin on her forearm.
“It’s my favorite,” says the young nurse.
“Oh, I like your earrings!” Mom charms the young lady.
“Thank you. Rita, what is your birthday?”
“April 14, 1934.”
I listen so I can help when mom can’t hear.
“Mom, you shaved a year off your age!” In my time with her she has never done this.
“Mom, you were born in 1933.”
The nurse said, “No problem, I can’t blame her. I do this myself.”
We all laugh.
We finish up with eye pressure checks and go back to another waiting room.
“Pauly – I am taking up all of your time. If I had candy in my purse, you would get a bunch.”
She continued. “You can check in my purse, but you will just take all of my money!”
“No mom. But, I might take your candy stash.”
I continued. “I never dive into a woman’s purse. It’s dangerous, and I might get lost in there and NEVER get out.”
Then out of the blue, Rita chimes, “Why is that lady wearing skates in here?”
I look to my right, and another young lady waiting with her own mom has very thick souled shoes. She is smiling at me, very understanding.
I add, “Those aren’t skates, but very stylish shoes – plus she gets an added height advantage.” The lady nods and smiles at us. She might think we have lost our minds, or just finds us amusing.
After the shots and visit with the doc mom states, “I can’t see. Can we get something to eat, too?”
“Yes. You will be better tomorrow.” I put on her cool black shades that I got at the State Fair – sponsored by the famous Dairy Bar. The temple bars say, “Undeniably Dairy”. I drop her off, put her in her lazy girl chair, top her off with a blanket, text my brother and sister her status, and tell mom, “I love you.”
”I love you more,” is her standard comeback.
She starts crying. I am not sure she knows it is me. She does get confused and mixes up the kids often, so I have my doubts. It doesn’t matter in the long run.
She says nothing is wrong, but I fear she doesn’t want to be alone.
I have learned that holding your mom’s hand and caressing her face is a golden moment.
She stops crying for the moment.
I stay until she falls asleep.
As I exit her apartment, I hope she is sleeping soundly and is feeling at ease. And I smile for a woman who continues to live her life with grace.
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Dr. Paul E. Kotz writes his winsome stories from the Twin Cities. He’s also Director – Doctorate of Business Administration Program at Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota and the author of several encouraging books, which would make terrific gifts..
Here’s another winsome story about Paul and his mother.
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Please check out Paul’s Amazon Author Page.
How sweet. All we can do is make sure they are comfortable and know they are loved.
Amen, Darlene.
I couldn’t agree more, Darlene. We can miss and grieve the person they were, but we need to love who they are now.
It certainly sounds like Dr. Paul knows what he’s writing about!!
I’m thankful he shares these dear stories on Facebook! (And he always says yes when I ask to share one.)
Oh, I loved this story! I can relate as my mother was born in 1934…I feel so blessed that we had her as long as we did. She would have been 90 years old this April. It is hard to believe that she has been gone for two years already. I made her famous blueberry muffins yesterday. We treasure her memory…all of us, and the grandchildren and great grandchildren. You can feel the love in this story and it is a very beautiful thing. Love just grows and grows as the years unfold…the important thing is to keep holding hands with our beloveds. Everything changes and that is life, but when we hold each other’s hand, somehow, all the pieces of the puzzle come together.
Bless you, Linda. Those blueberry muffins!
Sounds like many of the exchanges I had with my mom. Even as her memory declined and she slipped further into dementia, she kept her never-ending sweet nature and sense of humor.
What a dear memory, Pete. Bless you.
I just reached out to him via Linked In. It doesn’t look like Paul has a blog.
By the way, I contacted the folks at Our American Stories on Sunday, but I haven’t heard back from them yet.
Pete, I just sent you an email.
This is such a touching personal narrative.
I’ve so enjoyed Paul’s banter with his mom through each eye doctor visit.
The dialogue between Paul and his mother is wonderfully endearing. Thanks for sharing it, Joy. 🙂
It sure is. Thank you, Nancy.