A final conversation with mom
(got it all on tape, brother)

The month before my mom died, I moved out to California to spend some time with her before she checked out. I gave her pills, water, what little food she would eat and morphine. Lots and lots of morphine.

Most of all, I kept her company. Unfortunately, she suffered from either dementia or Alzheimer's. The doctors weren't sure which, but whatever the specifics, she was a raving lunatic at the end.

She's also the last person on this planet ever to call me Michael without getting a right cross to the jaw.

Two weeks into my visit, I bought a handheld cassette player so I could tape some of our conversations. As whacked out as she was, she could answer questions about her past lucidly -- especially the years she spent in Manhattan during her twenties.

Here's a partial result of these taped conversations:

Mom: (Calling from her room.) Michael.... Michael... please... please... Michael...

MJ: (Entering the room after yet another cigarette break on the patio) Yeah, mom.

Mom: We need some kind of bell. Usually these places have a bell.

MJ: What places?

Mom: You know... I forget the name... homes... hospitals... nursing thingamabobs.. Ha! You know... whatever this place is.

MJ: Mom... you're home. This is your home.

Mom: Oh. That's right. (Laughs.) You keep telling me that, don't you? Well, I have to admit you've made a nice duplicate here. That must of been so much trouble for you guys to go through.

MJ: Do you need anything, Mom?

Mom: Yes, I do. You need to get on the horn to everybody. We're going to have a meeting. I've only handled meetings as a secretary, but I'm sure you've done this before, so if you could just make the calls and get everyone together, we should be set-up for... well... it all has to be done in secret, of course. And I'll need something to write on. Please.

MJ: Mom. It's three in the morning.

Mom: It is? (Pause.) Okay. Okay. We can do this tomorrow, I suppose.

MJ: (Moves tape recorder closer.) Mom. Is anybody in the family gay?

Mom: Hmmm. Only the ones in France. I can't remember if your grandmother was or not. You understand, we all had a few hidden away, like any family. But I'm not sure about your grandmother.

MJ: Uh-huh. Is anybody in the family adopted?

Mom: Yes. Your brother Danny was adopted. But I think he's the only one.

MJ: When you were a singer in New York, where did you sing? On Broadway?

Mom: No. I never sang on Broadway. I used to sing at Radio City Music Hall. I was a fill-in singer, so if a band -- and they had big bands in those days, you know. Not like the ones now... anyway, if a band, say, was coming in from Chicago, but the bus broke down or... whatever... then I'd be asked to sing. There were several of us who worked there on a fill-in basis.

MJ: And you once worked for Bella Abzug?

Mom: Yes... Ha!... she would walk in -- I was a legal secretary then in Manhattan. So I worked for her and two other lawyers. She always wore these big hats and when she walked through the door, she'd let out a big sigh and just stare at me. She was a riot.

MJ: Was she gay?

Mom: Hmmmm. You know, I never thought about that. But now that you mention it, she did wear those big hats, so maybe she was.

MJ: What do you think of Michael?

Mom: Ha! I was just going to say that you look a lot like him.

MJ: I am Michael.

Mom: (Laughs.) Yes, you do look a lot like him, I'll say that for you.

MJ: (Leaves room, then returns with baseball cap on his head.) Hi, mom!

Mom: Danny! How long have you been here?

MJ: I just got in. How are you feeling?

Mom: Oh, much better. They take such good care... well... I could have a buzzer or something, that would be nice, but do you see how they made the room look so much like home, with the flowers and the butterflies and the big to-do. (Pause.) Danny, could you get Michael for a minute? Please.

MJ: Sure, mom. (Leaves room, then returns without the baseball cap.) Hi, mom. What's up?

Mom: You know what Michael? (Pause.) I don't think Danny was adopted after all.

I have to ask: Who's the real lunatic here? The woman suffering from dementia? Or the asshole with the tape recorder asking all the stupid questions?

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2001 by Mike Jasper.