My mother, Bernadette, died two years ago. Before dementia stole her ability to speak, I recorded her quirky words, which are now family treasures. She loved a good laugh and was often the source of it with family and friends.
Her nickname was Burns. “They don't call me Burns for nothing, ’cuz I'm hot stuff,” she liked to say. She probably came up with the name herself. She'd announce her beauty ritual by saying, “I'm putting on my health (blush) and my lippies (lipstick).” She wore multiple rings, bracelets, and clippies (clip earrings) and laughed, “I've got lots of trinkets.”
Life wasn't always easy, and humor helped her cope. Her father died before she was born, and she contracted polio as a child. She spent months in the hospital in a leg cast. One leg didn't grow, resulting in a lifelong limp and leg brace. As an adult, she suffered a miscarriage, comforted her 3-year-old daughter through open-heart surgery, and survived the death of her husband from cancer.
I wish I'd asked more about these tragedies, but her dementia didn't allow for deeper conversations. She never complained and once said, “I've never been bitter.” Maybe being named after a saint has benefits.
When searching for a parking place, she'd say, “Hail, Mary, full of grace, find Bernie a parking place,” and often Mary listened. (This was before the days of handicap-accessible parking spots.) I don't remember her being angry, even when it was warranted. “You're trying to get my goat, but you don't know where I tied it,” she'd say with a giggle.
Her grandchildren, whom she dubbed her “six pack,” are now grown and still reference my mother's sayings. One of our favorites is “Want to hear a dirty joke? A white horse fell in the mud.” Corny, but she'd tell it to anyone who would listen and often get a chuckle.
Food also brought out her funny side. Before a meal she'd say, “I'd eat sawdust if it was covered in whipped cream. Bury me in it.” I forgot to honor that wish, but dessert toppings make me smile. She called happy hour “snappy hour,” and when asked if she'd like a second drink, she'd answer, “You can't fly on one wing.”
Once dementia set in, my mother was funny in a different way. She would say, “I want to live you,” or “I've got tears in my mouth.” She would sometimes ask, “Has your mom come? I'm happy you made me. I hope your mom loves you.” I always replied, “I know she does.” For her last Christmas, when she was 95, she asked for a fireman calendar.
Now that she's gone, I'm trying to be more like her. She taught me that a lifelong disability and cognitive decline don't have to limit who you are or your ability to find humor in life. One of the last things she said was, “Don't forget about me.” Not a chance.
My mother didn't live happily ever after, but she lived. Happily.
Kathyn MacDonell lives in Dallas with her husband and two dogs. She was the manager of a neuroscience and geriatrics program at Texas Health Presbyterian Dallas. MacDonnell loves writing and visiting her daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren.
