My mom’s memory care facility also cares for Father Ossola, and what’s left of his memory. The underpaid revolving door of staff generally do a nice job. Ironically, they really have little to do with caring for mom or Fr. Ossola’s “memories.” How could they? That’s our job.
One of the memories that’s been checked out of both of their libraries for a while now, has to do with how their friendship got started back in the summer of 1972. That was my rookie year as an altar server. It coincided with Father Ossola’s rookie year as our assistant pastor. When it came to 6:15 AM daily Mass, it wasn’t unusual for the staff in the sanctuary (priest + 3 altar boys) to outnumber the customers in the pews. Because we lived out in the country, if it was my turn to serve, it was mom’s turn to serve. . .as my chauffeur. . .and as someone to boost daily Mass attendance numbers. This brought mom in contact with Father Ossola, which, in turn, gave him the opportunity to invite himself over for dinner.
Back in the early 1970s, a priest coming to dinner was a big deal. For example, dinner rolls, like pumpkin pie, were a Thanksgiving-only extravagance in my family. On the night that Father was coming to dinner, we had rolls! What happened next fits nicely into that section of my own inner-library that contains several volumes dedicated to my zany older brother, Phil’s antics. He had a way of bringing things back down to Earth when pretention was in the air.
The summer before we met Father Ossola, when dad’s business was blowing up in a good way, (before it blew up in a bad way) we took a vacation to a swanky resort in the shadow of Camelback Mountain in Scottsdale, Arizona. To give you an idea of how cool this place was, luminaries performing in Las Vegas would occasionally slip out of Sin City and spend the night in our quiet little resort. Mom must have known that ahead of time. One afternoon, on that vacation, she showed up poolside in Jackie Onassis sunglasses, a chic new swimsuit, and a brand new head of stylish hair, compliments of a wig making its runway debut on that very afternoon! She had a look that would have turned the head of any Hollywood producer or a Rat Pack sunbather!
“Whoa! Look at mom,” came the amazed cry of her seven children. About then, Phil shouted, “Hey mom, throw your wig into the pool, we’ll dive for it!” Mom reacted to the laughter and the swarm of comments as if bees were chasing her back in-doors. It took every bit of Phil’s humor and charm to smooth that over. We never saw that wig again.
That’s why I have to believe it was Phil, who attempted to normalize mom’s highfalutin’ meal with Father Ossola, by firing the first shot. When Father asked if someone could, “please pass a roll,” a shower of seven bread missiles pummeled him. Unlike the wig ordeal, there was laughter all the way around the table. That must have cemented the deal. He, and we passed the initiation. Fifty years later, mom and Father Ossola break bread together on most days. For those of us actually responsible for their memory care, the traces of those experiences guide us. The arc of those memories provides a template for how to relate to them when so much of who they were has been pared down.
For example, when I take mom to a Doctor’s appointment, remembering the razzing and the teasing that would make her laugh, I’ll mention her drinking and weed smoking to the nurse who is prepping her. She’ll protest these playful little lies with a chuckle, and a side comment to the nurse, “You see what I have to put up with?” When we’re alone, I’ll sit on the physician’s revolving stool and give myself a vigorous spin. As if I were Jerry Lewis in the middle of some hilarious physical comedy, her classic laugh will incapacitate her, “Tom! Stop it!” Of course, I eventually do, but not all at once. Mom’s love language has always been a teasing, cajoling humor. If something painful has to happen in a doctor’s or dentist’s office, providing her a dose of humor is the best preventative medicine I know of.
That same radio wave continues to work well with Father Ossola all of the fifty years I’ve known him. One afternoon at lunch, recently, someone said, “Father Ossola, you and Barb (my mom) have been friends for over fifty years!” My mom didn’t miss a beat, “Who said anything about friends?” With that, they both erupted in laughter. The few times I’ve had to assist Father through an unfortunate incontinence experience, it’s the playful insults that get us both through these ordeals. “Hey, you’re a pretty good worker,” he offered in the middle of our toileting experience together. “You better not get used to it,” I responded, “You’re not paying me enough for this!” He laughs. I laugh. We both laugh together.
The Christian theology of Eucharistic remembrance mirrors the Jewish understanding of the Passover service. As these high holy rituals unfold, both traditions believe that the sacred events they call to mind, are experienced, not in some dusty past, but in the current time zone. There is a “making present” involved in these sacred events. This is the essence of memory care for our diminished old friends and family members. Memory care involves remembering who they have always been, and who they are destined to be—yet again—in this present moment.
Dialogue
What stood out for you while reading this article? Did it remind you of anything or anyone in your own life?
How do you relate to the future possibility of your own aging? What are the keys to aging well as far as you can tell?
Who are your role models for aging well? What questions would you want to ask them to get a sense of “What’s the secret of your success?”
For my mom and Father Ossola, a teasing humor describes something essential about who they are. If someone were to try to describe the essence of who you are, what words would get at that? What signature memories would they have to know about you?