A member of The Greatest Generation, my mom was born during the Great Depression into a family of eight. During those lean times, my grandma and grandpa both worked two jobs; every child in the family did what they could to make ends, maybe not meet, but at least be within shouting distance of each other.

During World War II, my mom ran a neighbor’s household while the dad was away at war and the mom was working twelve-hour shifts at the factory. My mom did this when she was ten years old. (At ten years old, my mom didn’t trust me to even run a load of laundry – mostly because I kept forgetting to take the 16-penny nails out of my jeans pockets.)

At fourteen, Mom managed a shoe store and at sixteen she married my dad, who had just gotten home from the war. She raised six boys, five of whom were absolute terrors. She got a job at Mead Johnson, earned her GED, and became the first female foreman (forewoman?) at that factory. On top of this, she cared for her father when he was dying, her mother who lived with us, her brother, her mother-in-law, her father-in-law, and in later years, her husband, who had Alzheimer's.

My mom has always been proud that she can stand on her own two feet, and she has always been accustomed to taking care of the people around her. Her greatest fear, as she told me, is that one of her kids would have to go through what she went through, caring for that many family members. 

My mom’s self-worth was based on taking care of herself and others. But every year that she’s been up here in the Chippewa Valley, we’ve watched her give up her independence, little by little. She couldn’t drive anymore and had to depend on me for errands. She couldn’t cook or clean anymore, so she moved to assisted living. When she could no longer see to her own basic needs, she had to move to the veteran’s home in Chippewa Falls.

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AND SOMETIMES IN HER ROOM, I AM THE ONE WHO EXPERIENCES THE TIME SHIFT.

I see myself in that small room with a hospital bed, trying desperately to make my children understand me, but never quite succeeding. 

JIM JEFFRIES

Even though hospice and the amazing staff at the veteran’s home care for her so very, very well, she has become more and more unhappy. She feels that she is no longer worth anything. She feels that her dignity is being stripped from her an inch at a time.

Well. I just got back from a visit with my mom, who is 94. It can be pretty exhausting, as she now shifts from one time period in her life to another in the blink of an eye. Her hallucinations are often more real to her than I am, and I have to be nimble to adjust accordingly.

One time, she was convinced Dad was shacking up with a sixteen-year-old girl, even though Dad had been dead for nearly 20 years. She just could not understand why he has not come to visit her.

Another time, the TV behind me was playing a medical drama. Mom asked me if the woman on screen was hurt. I said, “Yeah, I guess so,” and she absolutely lost it. In her mind, the woman on screen was my wife, Jane, and my mom was sure she was going to die. It took nearly an hour to calm her down. 

These days, she sleeps a lot, and Mom cannot really have a conversation with me anymore. Most of the time, she doesn’t recognize me. One good connection that holds true is singing songs from the 1940s together. She especially likes it when I yodel with her, though this has caused the nurses to rush to her room on more than one occasion.

And sometimes in her room, I am the one who experiences the time shift. I see myself in that small room with a hospital bed, trying desperately to make my children understand me, but never quite succeeding.

I hope they will sing with me. 

Every now and again, however, Mom comes to herself and realizes what is happening to her. These are the most painful times of my visits. She looks at me, horrified, and says, “Jim, I’m so sorry. I never wanted this.”

“It’s OK, mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jim.” And then she is gone again.

Maybe love is the last dignity we have. Maybe love is the only dignity we have.