Week 15 – Solitude

 

For the topic this week, I initially went searching for an only child hanging from one of the branches in my family tree. It seems all my ancestors were quite proflific…I couldn’t find one. I decided, instead, to write about someone who experienced much solitude in her life, my mother…

My mother was the second oldest, and only daughter of Glen and Mabel Ditmore. She grew up on a farm in western Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl. My grandmother was a Tomboy and my mother did not follow in her footsteps at all. She was prim and proper in all things. She won second place in the Oklahoma State Typing Contest in 1936, and could play the piano as fast as she could type. I’ve never heard anyone play “Napoleon’s Last Charge” as she could.

Where my dad was outgoing and never met a stranger, my mother was his exact opposite. She shied away from meeting new people and had no intimate friends to share her feelings with, that I’m aware of. For that matter, I’m not sure she had any friends, but just a few acquaintances, mostly wives of my dad’s friends. The one exception would be her double cousin, Margie Pennington. She wrote a biography when she was younger that does shed some light on why she was the way she was.  She spoke frankly about her first marriage, which it seems badly damaged her self-esteem. She found it hard to trust again. Then my dad came along. Their first meeting was a double-date, set up by one of my dad’s friends and his wife. Mom and dad rode in the back seat. My dad told the story of how my mom scooted so close to the door that he was afraid if the car turned too suddenly, she would go flying out. Apparently, she was able to get over her fear of my father, as my brother and I are living proof.

But back to solitude…

I believe my mother suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Her home had to be clean all the time. She called it “ready for company,” but we had very little company. Each morning when I awoke, I’d go to the bathroom and by the time I got back to my room, the bed was already made. The only time I ever saw my parents argue was when I was around five years old. I wanted to learn to wash dishes (ok, maybe I just wanted to play in the water, but whatever). I began to cry when I was told “NO” at which time my dad grabbed a chair and put it up to the sink, turned on the water, and added some dish soap. Although I did play in the water for a bit, I didn’t learn how to wash dishes that day. Instead of my mother teaching me how to clean house and cook, my dad taught me to change the oil in the car, mow the grass, and all the other handyman things he knew. I’m thankful every day for the things he taught me.

My mother never needed anyone around. She was content to piddle along, dusting, vacuuming, cooking (of which she did three times a day on the weekends), painting her fingernails. And when that was all done, she’d rearrange the drawers in every dresser and cabinet we had. Every Wednesday morning since the early 1960’s my mom went to the “beauty shop” and had her hair done. I don’t think she ever got a good night’s sleep for fear of messing up her hair since it had to last until the next week. In the evenings, she would sit and watch tv with my dad, but I’m not entirely sure she ever actually heard what was said, but rather sat in solitude with her own thoughts.

While I am more outgoing, like my dad, I have only a few close friends in which I confide. I also inherited some of my mother’s quietness. However, I do love cleaning house. I tell everyone my housekeeper comes on Friday, but the truth is, I get off at noon on Friday and that is my time to do all the piddly things, just as my mom did. Cooking, however, is nothing I care to do, if I can get out of it, and I don’t like anyone messing with my hair (except for Dianna Shipley, who gives the best shampoos in the history of the world). I don’t mind being alone.

On a Sunday night in 1992, I received a call that my dad was being transported to the hospital by ambulance because he was staring off into space, unresponsive. I caught the next flight home and arriving at the hospital, my mom, brother and I met with the doctors. They had no idea what was happening and called in specialists in infectious medicine and neurology. For several days he came in and out of consciousness. It was determined he had some sort of brain bleed and that he would undergo surgery. As the doctors were explaining the procedure, my mother had a blank look on her face. My brother asked her if she understood what they were saying and she responded, “Yes, but I have laundry at home that I need to get done.” This was the first sign of something not quite right. As it turned out, my dad had bumped his head (which he remembered, post-surgery) and recovered amazingly well. He had recently retired and my mother decided she should retire to stay home and “take care” of my dad. A few short months later, my dad received a phone call from a woman miles from their home. My mother had gotten lost coming home from the beauty shop. It was then her car keys were taken away.

For the last seven years of her life, my mother remained in solitude to her own thoughts. At times, something might spark a recollection of a time gone by. I welcomed the times I was able to have a conversation with her, but they were few and far between. When my dad passed away, I moved her in with me. One day, she saw the funeral announcement from my dad’s service. She pointed at it and said, “This was my husband.” Eventually I had no recourse but to move her to a nursing home. This was something she had always feared for some reason. I recall her mentioning it even when I was very young, but she was falling often, and trying to get out the front door. I was not a nurse and felt completely inadequate to care for her. This was, by far, the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. Ironically, after moving her to the nursing home, I believe she found some comfort. She could often be found sitting at the piano, playing “Napoleon’s Last Charge.” She lived only a few more months, and I truly don’t believe she even knew she was living in a nursing home.

I’ve had my DNA tested, and there are a number of health insights you can obtain, if you wish.  If I carry a gene that might cause one, or many, health issues in the future, I don’t care to know. I’m afraid I would spend the remainder of my days wondering when something, like Alzheimer’s, might rear its ugly head and my own mind would be left in solitude. After writing this story, I was reminded that I’m certain to have had inherited my mother’s OCD tendencies, but it occurred to me that, other than my dad and her family, my mother really had no outside interests or hobbies. I have come to the realization that my obsession with genealogy and family history has, perhaps, subconsciously manifested itself to combat something like this - to keep my mind active, so I can continue telling the stories of those who reside in my family tree.