Mother/Daughter/Eternity–a work in progress

I actually used my mother's 'dying' as an excuse to a cab driver, so he would leave me alone, for trying to explain taking the wrong route home from the airport.
My mother hasn't passed away as of yet. But the time is nigh. She has pneumonia and has lost a lot of ground.
I was asked if I wanted to take 'aggressive action' or 'keep her comfortable'. This is code for sending her to the hospital where she will be hooked up to monitors and machines, perhaps a feeding tube to put off the inevitable. Supposedly someone with dementia has a harder time with this because of the lack of familiarity. 'Comfortable' is code for managing pain, remaining at the facility, in this case a nursing home, and having her symptoms managed, but allowing nature to take it's course. This course would be the body shutting down.
I opted for comfortable, though it was an uncomfortable decision, and a lonely one. As soon as I signed papers I wanted to leave, had to leave to get the plane back to where I really lived, had almost always lived. Where she spent half her life, the middle section.

She's 90, it's her choice to stay or go without me forcing her hand. Let her be comfortable.

In 1945 she came to NYC, right before the war ended. She told me on VE day, all these sailors were trying to kiss her. Unlike the woman in the famous photo, she would have non of it. She came from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, a beauty queen with high spirits and a sense of adventure. Her then husband was in the air corp and brought her to NYC on a weekend. Her infidelity to home and hearth started with that visit. She knew she had to come back, no matter what.
She did. The first marriage didn't last, he wasn't who she married, and she wasn't who he hoped she would be. At 24 this is not surprising.

Her urban friends, all from other places, Texas, Alexandria Egypt, Maine all said she should be a model and work at Bergdorf Goodman. 'What's Bergdorf Goodman?'' she asked. She soon found out and did end up working there, as a runway model. Not the same as the catwalks of today, but still earning a living by her looks. She had many adventures in the golden age of New York in the 40s and 50s. It seemed like a lot of fun, and very glamorous.
Pretty good for a small time girl. She ended up living in Tudor City with 3 girlfriends while they were building the UN. The construction always woke them up.

Eventually she met my Dad, after 6 months in the Dominican Republic hanging out with the Trujillo junta set. It was suppose to be 2 weeks with a girl friend, but they just kept staying on. I even have her driver's license for the DR.  She said the guys who liked her the most came up to her neck (when she was wearing stillettos). I saw a few pictures, it looked great.
Anyway, she met my Dad and that lasted longer because they were older and they both wanted to be married and have children. Eventually I alighted on earth and both agreed separately that it was the reason they were ever together. Not the greatest psychology for a kid, but it was something they both completely agreed on.

My Mom's glamorous life was left to stories she told me and how her life was 'before'. Before me, my dad, trying to live a conventional life, that she thought she wanted, but wasn't as keen on when it enveloped her.

But her beauty did carry her, even at the nursing home. I made a small collage of old photos, people talked of her being 'like a movie star', so glamorous. It was kind of amazing, how the nurses and aides, even the hospice people today got gobsmacked over when they saw the photos. Beauty can really count for a lot. I know it's something I pursue. Not quite in the same way as my Mom did. Being a daughter of a glamorous mom, I went about it differently; rebelliously, artistically, poetically, in flats and jeans, no makeup vs heels, pencil skirts, girdles and foundation. She did tell great stories and could be really funny. Giving me tea and cinnamon toast when I had a sore throat, making handmade Halloween costumes (no boxed sets for me), collecting angels at Christmas, teaching me how to sew clothes (as close to fashion as I got).

Parents are never an even playing field. They do the best they can, which is a sliding scale. We as children slide up and down as well. When our parents have grown old, we trade places, they become our children and we take care of them. It's one of the hardest trade offs we have to deal with in our lives. Yet, it does have a natural order. I am not enjoying it, typical of a baby boomer, but it is my duty, and in some strange way that gives me solace.

I will post pictures of what I speak when I can get them scanned in.