Sentimental Sunday - Happy Birthday to Me!

Yesterday I celebrated a birthday - an event that I don't take for granted at all.  I am thankful for the opportunity to add another year to the count, and I pray that God sees fit to give me many more.

I had a very quiet day, for the most part, save a few tense moments at my mom's assisted living center, when I had to go head to head with a staff member about a situation with her care, but other than that, it was really a "me" kind of day -filled with rest, relaxation, and research, as well as a soothing bubble bath! :)  I did nothing special, and even ate leftovers for dinner.  I ended my day with an unsuccessful outing to one of my favorite clothing stores, only to arrive and find it completely bare with a note on the door stating that they were closed for remodeling and would reopen in March.  (That's how my luck runs..lol.)  So, as a consolaton prize, I decided to go and piddle around in Barnes and Noble for a while.  There, I relaxed with copies of, "The Washingtons of Wessington Plantation", "100 Years of Lynchings", and of a Hawaii travel guide (for my upcoming trip).  After perusing these materials to my satisfaction, I returned home and delved back into my favorite pasttime.  (I'm sure everyone reading this knows what that is.) 

All day long, I received calls from friends who wanted to wish me a happy day, and of course with each call came the inevitable question, "What are you doing to celebrate?"  Very few seemed to believe that I was as content as I sounded to just be doing what they considered to be... NOTHING.  But I was.  And, although I will admit that in previous years of celebrating alone, I've occasionally (not often) given myself a pity party, this was not one of those years.  Why?  Because this year I got a very special gift on my Birthday-Eve - one that surprised me and changed my entire perspective on everything.  My mother remembered my birthday!

Now, to some, this won't seem like a big deal, but I know that there are many of you who completely understand.  You see, my mother, a once vibrant, professional woman, has been a victim of a dulling of her intellect and memory, which, I believe, has been brought on more by lack of engagement and stimulation than anything else.  She has not been diagnosed with Alzheimers, but instead, has a movement disorder that in some ways mimics Parkinsons, but isn't quite that either.  My mother's intellect is still mostly intact, though dimished in some areas, but she knows everyone, remembers pretty much everything about her life, and can hold a good, lucid conversation most of the time.  However, there are other times - which are becoming more frequent now - when her brain seems to go to sleep, and she can't get her thoughts together or her words out right.  At those times, her comprehension seems effected, and someone who didn't know better would think she did indeed have the big "A".  Last year, on the anniversary of my birth, she was experiencing one of those phases, and for the first time in my life, my mother didn't know it was my birthday, and even when I explained it to her, she gave no emotional response.  So, Friday night, when I was talking to her on the phone, I told her that it was January 15th. When I asked her if she knew what the next day was, her response, "It's your birthday!" was the absolute most-bestest gift I could have gotten!  As our conversation went on, she asked me all of the appropriate questions: Was I doing anything special?  Were my daughters doing anything for me?  Had I heard from them?  I answered all of these questions and told her I'd see her the next day.  We talked about a few other things, and before we hung up, she remembered to tell me to have a happy birthday.

Perhaps now that I've opened the door, I'll begin to talk more about my mother's very unusual and frustrating health situation, which has been ongoing for over a decade, but for now, I just wanted to share this great gift that she gave me.  I did spend time with my mom yesterday, and thanked her for having me 48 years ago.  I even asked her to tell me a bit about my birth, which she did - but just a little.  She did repeat several times though that everyone kept looking at me in the baby bed and saying what a pretty baby I was, and each time she said it, she got a sweet smile on her face, as she remembered.

Today, on Sentimental Sunday, I'm sharing a picture of my mother that I just love for some reason.  I never saw this picture until about a year ago, when I was going through some of her old files.  The picture is a souvenier photo that was taken at Jack Dempsey's restaurant on Broadway in New York City.  My mother, who was a student at Hampton Institute at the time, was on trip to New York with her college beau, "Jimmy".  I have cropped him out because I don't know him, so I feel the need to respect his privacy.

Mary Anne and Jimmy, sometime between 1952-1955

Thanks for reading.  It's been an emotional few days.  Please continue in prayer for the people of Haiti.

Renate

The Other Side (of my family)

(Pictured to right: Manerva, Mary, and Maryanne - my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother)


I've just come in from a visit with my mother, who, unfortunately, resides in an assisted living facility due to a movement disorder (Parkinsonism?) and increasing dementia. Some visits are short and some are long. This was a long one, due to my showing her recordings of my daughter (a violinist) playing several pieces, and the fact that I had several "newsy" items to update her on.

My mother is pretty much in her "right mind". Her dementia has manifested itself mainly in her ability to take care of her ADL's, and has robbed her of most of her gross and fine motor skills. But, she can still hold a good conversation, and she knows what's up about everything and everybody. The rest of our family (except for my daughters) has basically abandoned her, and on the rare occasions they do have contact with her, they treat her as if she's not herself anymore, which doesn't help her at all. However, when my daughters and I visit her, or take her out, we treat her like the mother/grandmother she's always been, and the longer we are with her, the more of her true personality and still-intact intelligence shines through.

Anyway, this evening during our visit, I was sharing with my mother that the tenants who've lived in her rental home in Norfolk have given their move-out notice, after being in the house for about six years. This was the house that my mother grew up in, which was first owned by her grandparents, then her mother, and became hers shortly before my grandmother's death. My mother had the house renovated in the early 90's and has been renting it out ever since. But, since she been disabled, the responsibility for this property (along with everything else of hers) has become mine, so it was with a bit of a sigh of relief that I shared this news with her, adding that "now we can sell it." My mother's reaction to this was quite genuine. She sort of gasped, and teared up, and responded by quietly saying, "Yes, I guess we can." I thought it was over, so I just sat silently for a minute, but then I heard a very quiet, "I was so hoping we could keep it in the family. It means so much to me." A brief silence followed this, as I watched my mother blinking back tears, and then I responded, "I know, Ma, but it's just too much for me." This she repeated, almost in monotone, but then she added, "I know it is. You have too much on you." We went on to discuss the pros of selling the house - what she could do with the money, etc., and then it was all better. But I couldn't get this out of my mind on my drive home. Here's why:

My ancestry research has been almost soley dedicated to my paternal side. For some reason, I just feel more like I "come from" that side. And besides, my mother's side is smaller. Her siblings are still living and they seem to know who they are. Oh, and there's the other problem of my mother's father abandoning the family when my mother was four years old. No one has ever heard from or about Daniel Webster Hill again.

When we were kids, my brother, Arthur, and I used to claim that my mother's mother was HIS grandma, and my father's mother was MINE. It seemed that they loved us that way, although that probably wasn't true. But on my drive home tonight, I realized that I've really done my mother a disservice by not finding out as much as I possibly could about her roots. Yes, I located them in the census way back to my great-great grandparents back in the beginning of my research, and I've searched high and low to find out about my grandfather, but I haven't done the HALF of the work that I've done on my paternal side, and I plan to change that, beginning right now. So stay tuned because Walter and Manerva Brown Davis (my gg grandparents), Daniel and Mary Davis Hill Thomas (my grandparents), and even my mother, Mary Anne Hill Yarborough will begin to make themselves known on my blog!