Tribute to Mom

3-11-2015

As some of you already know, my Mother, Nancy Hollowell, died peacefully in her sleep yesterday morning at 9:30 am, after an almost five year struggle with Alzheimer's.  I'd like to  share with you some of her life because she was a courageous,  vibrant,  dynamic woman  who lived a full life.  I want to remember who she was before Alzheimer's took it's awful toll.

She was born in a small town in Mississippi, the second of two daughters born to Fred and Juaniece Bynum.  They were quite the adventerous couple; he was 20 years her senior  and they had eloped to Colorado Springs. They did a lot of traveling. Mom grew up in an large,  tight-knit extended family and there were enough eccentrics to keep it interesting (Uncle Waldo always wore eyeliner.) She had two girl friends she grew up with that would be friends for life, Sue and Ann.  By all accounts she had a very happy childhood.

She yearned for more than small town living, and met my Dad at Ole Miss.  He had dark hair and amazing blue eyes and was handsome in his ROTC uniform.  They married on my mother's 20th birthday.   They made a dashing couple.  She was well suited to the life of a military officer's wife.  She did her duty: she moved back home with the kids while Dad served his tour of Korea (post war) and first tour of Vietnam during the war.  She packed up the household and moved to where he was stationed, from West Point to Colorado Springs, to Ft. Benning to countless addresses in Texas.  When Dad had his second tour of Vietnam, she moved us into a little house off base in Killeen, Texas, where we kids could roam free.

The military life suited her.  She loved the formal part of the military: she'd get to dress up and accompany dad, spiffed out in his dress uniform, to various social functions.  And  how they partied!  Back then,  the MPs would follow you home if they saw your car weaving to make sure you got home safely.  There's a picture taken of my Mom that personifies that era.  It's black and white, of course.  On the walls in the background are mid-century art pieces.  Mom is doing the limbo in a snug black dress.  She's pregnant with me. She's got a cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other.

Most people dread moving; they hate leaving behind friends and familiar places.  I think she enjoyed it.  It was an adventure:  a chance to make new friends and have new experiences.  She made friends so easily.  Part of it was her upbringing, I'm sure.  But she was eager to meet new people and people responded to her charm.

She had her share of tragedy, too.  She lost her sister,  Jean, at an early age in the mid 60's, and her dad just a few years later.  And the biggest tragedy of her life, (and mine) was when my brother, Fred, died when he was 16.  I can't imagine the anguish and pain that she and Dad went through.Many marriages don't survive the loss of a child.  Theirs did.  Mom somehow kept it together.

She'd always wanted to live overseas and Dad finally got orders.  We arrived in Frankfurt in June, 1974 and were there for three years.  Mom made sure we took advantage of every opportunity we had to travel, see and do.  We visited England, France, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Spain...I don't remember  everywhere we went, truth be told. She and Dad would vacaction without us, occasionally.  I remember eating Thanksgiving dinner at the USO in Paris.  We saw every museum and castle we could. We ate all the strange food we could find.  And she bought souvenirs wherever she went. Even though she was afraid of heights, she followed me all the way up and down the leaning Tower of Pisa.  She took me and my sister, Paula, on a trip behind the Iron Curtain, before the wall fell, and we visited Leningrad (St. Petersburg) , Moscow, Warsaw and Prague.  The Soviet soldiers with their machine guns enjoyed terrorizing me!

My Dad was stationed and then later retired from Ft. MacPherson in Atlanta, GA.  We had moved to Marietta, north of Atlanta, where I went to high school.  Mom had gone back to work full time while we were in Germany, and found a job working for HUD in downtown Atlanta.  It was the late 70's when energy conservation was still on everyone's mind, so she joined a carpool.  For her turn to drive, she bought herself a new, bright yellow, tiny, tinny Toyota Corolla with a four speed manual tranmission.  I'm sure her car pool buddies dreaded her day to drive, but she was doing her part and she loved her little car.

She was diagnosed  with pancreatic cancer when I was a freshman in college.  They gave her six months to a year to live.  She did chemo and radiation and is one of the very few people who beat that disease.  We spent a lot of that next summer, when she was in such bad shape, watching the Atlanta Braves on TV.   That was the year they won their first 13 games and they helped Mom recover and deal with the treatments.  I've always considered the years since to be bonus years and feel blessed to have had them.

My sister had moved to Florida not too long after we arrived back in the states, and after a brief stint at the Atlanta Journal after college I moved down, too.  I figured Paula would one day be my only relative and I wanted to have a good relationship with her.  My Dad died of cancer a few years later, and Mom moved to Florida not too long after I married Ed.  She bought a house in Walden Lake and got busy making a new life for herself.  She joined the Methodist Church, sang in the choir, did the bells chorus, played golf (her passion) and played bridge.  She made many new friends and found a travel buddy.  She was returning from a 2 week vacation in New Zealand and Australia when the planes hit the twin towers and all air traffic was grounded.  She was a few days late getting back from that trip.

She loved her grandaughter, Amanda, and my two boys, Justen and Grayson.  She loved doing holidays and making sure they were magical for everyone. Every year she'd make a double batch of butter cookie dough and have it ready for us when we got there.  I'd roll and cut the cookies, she'd bake them and my boys would decorate.  Mom would make frosting and the boys would get the food dye out to make up their own colors of frosting.  The kitchen would be a wreck with smears of icing and different colored sprinkles everywhere, but she'd just sweep up the mess and smile.

We got the diagnosis about five years ago.  My sister and I knew something was wrong and went with her together to see her doctor.  I remember Dr. Kelly's words: "Nancy, you'll be fine.  It'll be hard on your girls, but you'll be fine."

It has been hard.  This bright, smart, charming, funny woman was reduced to a shell.  Her wit and personality have been long gone.  Slowly, slowly she lost her ability to speak, to swallow and eat.  She lost her memory.  She lost her memories.  She lost the ability to care for herself or control her bodily functions.  She went from an adult back to being a child. She lived exactly in the moment.  It wasn't all grim; there were moments of joy.  I used to pick  her up and take her to my sister, Paula's house.   Paula would have her granddaughter, Ava, with her.  Mom loved to sit with Ava, her great granddaughter, and coo and sing-song and wave to her.  When I visited her last month I took her outside to sit in the sun and she articulated, quite clearly, 'This is nice."

She's been physically strong if not mentally.  As late as Sunday she was walking around the memory care unit on her walker.  Monday she didn't want to get out of bed (that's not unusual for her.)  They noticed splotching in her legs which meant that her heart wasn't pumping like it was supposed to.  Hospice had been called in a month or so ago, just in case.  They called for 24 hour care.  My sister stayed by her side on Monday night.  They were saying it could be hours, it could be days.  I'd planned to come down Tuesday afternoon after my son got out of class, but at 7 am the facility called and said, "Come now."  Good news rarely comes from 7 am phone calls.  I called Paula, who'd briefly gone home, and she headed back to Aston Gardens.  The day nurse had arrived and was taking over when I got there.  Both nurses agreed, it could be hours, it could be days.  Mom's breathing was steady but shallow.  Paula decided to head into work; they had a crisis.

I sat by mom's side, talking to her, singing to her, reminding her of things we had done.  She was not concious, but the nurse said she could still everything we said.  I talked to her, held her hand, rubbed her face.  After about an hour and fifteen minutes, her breathing suddenly changed.  The nurse said,  "That's it, she's about to go."  We debated calling Paula, but the nurse said she wouldn't have time to get back and she didn't want her to rush and get into a wreck, especially since she thought it was going to happen any minute.

My dad had a saying.  He'd exlaim 'My stars!' to make a point....so I told Mom....."Mom, Dad's right there, he's waiting for you.  He's saying, 'My stars!  Nancy, look at you!  Don't you look great!'  "  She took her last breath a few moments later.  She was very peaceful.

Yes, I'm weeping as I'm writing this.  I will miss having my Mother here on this earth.  I'm thankful for the time we had together, especially the bonus years after the cancer.  That being said, I'm grateful this journey is over.  I've been mourning her for years; I've been mourning  for my Mother who was no longer able to mother.  Missing the woman who loved to walk on the beach but was no longer capable of it.  Who could no longer play golf or enjoy a good meal or a hearty laugh, or even follow the plot of a TV show.

I hate Alzheimers like other people hate cancer.  If you're in the mood to do so, you can make a contribution in her name, Nancy B. Hollowell, to the Alzheimer's Foundation.