Saying Goodbye to MooMoo: Losing My Mother to Parkinson's Disease

On April 5, 2000, in mid-afternoon, my oldest friend died. She went peacefully; one moment she was still breathing, the next she'd left her mortal shell behind. Although there was no suffering, it wasn't a sudden process or a shock. My oldest friend was my mother, and for two years she had been suffering the ever-increasing debilitation of Parkinson's Disease. It came to her late in life, and in this she was blessed. But she did spend two years in a wheelchair, and the road to that chair was a difficult and painful one.

It began in February of 1998, in the middle of an el nino storm that blew the roof up on our house. I was working on a television show in Los Angeles, and the kitchen ceiling fell in, knocking Mom off balance and into the glass top of the kitchen table. As if that was an omen, after that her balance was never the same. Her entire face was bruised and battered, but there seemed to be no permanent damage.

She got a walking stick, I painted a flowering vine up it. She got a wheeled walker, but one day fell out of bed and broke her collarbone. After the el nino incident I gave up the television work and remained with her, and after the broken collarbone, I knew she couldn't walk anymore. Kaiser sent her a wheelchair, and a physical therapist. The therapist was a wonderful woman named April, who was able to help her walk a little, and do some exercises. And unlike some invalids, Mom didn't spend her life indoors, watching television. We got her talking books, provided free (with the special tape machine) from the state. She went on outings with my friends and me, always welcome because of all the parents, Mom was the one who belonged, who was a friend to all generations.

During her last two years she was able to go on picnics, to the beach, the woods, the theatre...the only real disaster was an outdoor celebration, New Year's 1998. Not a good plan in a wheelchair, when its' cold outside. But she really wanted to go, and one of the hardest things for a child to realize is the increasing limitations of a parent. Her last New Year's Eve some friends and I threw a big Millenium Masque at a clubhouse in town, and even though she had wraps over her hand-beaded silk top and gold lame evening skirt, she held her red and gold masque all evening. It was a short one for her, and she didn't stay awake until midnight, but she was there, and she saw the new Millennium!

Something I learned from caring for Mom is that infirmity and even severe disability don't deminish the humor or joy, fun and entertainment. I've always been a party-giver, usually three a year including a big Yule buffet. This didn't end with Mom's incapacity, even though she couldn't move around, everyone came to her, and she still took great enjoyment in parties and gatherings.

Every day is a little adjustment, some so minute you don't notice them at all. Until one day you look at this person you love so much, and you realize they're going to leave you. Soon. And they need to, because this frail shell we wear as our mortal clothing is becoming threadbare. Worn out from living. Up until the end, Mom loved clothes. I am a professional grade seamstress, and amateur designer, and even after she lost so much weight she was the size of a child, she still decked out like a fashion plate. Strangers would complement her on her clothes, her jewelry.

The things we love should be with us throughout life. We were lucky, Mom and I...she was always a tiny woman; 5'1" at her tallest, 105 at her heaviest. I am a 5'8" amazon, and at the end I could easily pick her up from her chair and put her into the car. I could do the same when she couldn't even stand, and put her onto the bed, or into a chair. Everytime I did, she would rest her head on my shoulder and say, "I love you, DebDeb. You're the best thing that ever happened in my life."

Our wonderful doctor performed many tests for a year, trying to determine what had happened to Mom's legs. When she was finally diagnosed with Parkinson's, it was a death sentence...she was too old for the medication. The doctor told me in January of 2000, she probably didn't have 6 months left. I never told her, though, and on the Saturday before her death, we went to see Erin Brockovich and for pizza with friends. Sunday night she had a massive stroke, and never recovered.

Goodbye my oldest friend, best mother a daughter could hope for.