Tag Archives: memories

Truth. Lies. Priceless Memories.

When I was young, I never dreamed that one day, fibbing to my mom would be better than telling her the truth. Instead, I strived to dodge that age-old, childhood taunt: Liar liar pants on fire.

I’d be lying now though if I said that fibs never crossed my lips. In fact, before I aged into double digits, I would silently breathe that insult to myself whenever a Catholic priest slid open the panel that separated us inside a confessional. Gazing through the shrouded window at the shadowy figure opposite me, I always spoke in a hushed tone, praying that whoever sat on the far side of the confessional could not hear my litany of sins, including my lies.

Karen Antonietti First Communion 1963
First Communion 1963

I recited the same list and assigned a corresponding number at every telling. I fought with my brothers and sisters nine times. I disobeyed my parents seven times. I lied eight times…Though I did not keep a tally, I was certain some of my infractions numbered ten or more. Hence, liar liar.

Fast forward fifty-some years.

I hunkered in assisted living with my eighty-nine-year-old mother after she broke her pelvis in October 2020. Her senior living community was on lockdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic, but I was allowed to be her essential caregiver during her rehabilitation period. Throughout my fourteen-plus week stay, her bones healed. Sadly, her dementia progressed.

Mom’s grasp of reality fluctuated. Sometimes she knew who I was. Other times, she thought I was her friend Shirley. One afternoon, my sister Laurie called while Mom and I were eating lunch. During their conversation, Mom said, “No, Karen’s not here.” She listened to Laurie for a moment, then turned to me with a quizzical look and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Karen,” I said.

Her face softened into a smile. “Oh, you little pup!” she replied, and her words and mirth made me laugh. 

"Shirley" Karen Buley and mom, Kay Antonietti in assisted living, January 2021.
“Shirley” and Kay January 2021

Most days, Mom remembered that our Papa had died. The large, foam-backed banner that sported his picture, birth and death dates, and the words, “Forever In Our Hearts,” was propped atop her dresser. When she made loops with her walker, she’d often smile and say, “Hi, Pops,” throwing in an occasional, “Pray for us.”

After she regained her strength, we made weekly outings to a coffee shop drive through on our way to visit Papa’s grave. On the fourth anniversary of his death, we were parked in our usual spot at the cemetery. “I haven’t seen your dad in a long time,” she said. Sorrow laced her voice.

I replied with the gentle words that had softened her sadness when I’d needed them before. “Papa’s in heaven.”

“He died?” she wailed. “Oh, Dan. What did I do to you? I’m so sorry…”

I longed to dial back my words.

I had recently learned about “therapeutic fibbing”—bending the truth to match her reality—and “redirection”—shifting her focus. In hindsight, I desperately wished I had used one of those techniques that day and struggled to give myself grace.

Two-and-a-half weeks later, the senior living community hosted a reading and author’s chat for my novel Perimenopausal Women With Power Tools. Mom sat in the front row, alternately beaming and dozing. Guilt haunted me, knowing that, like my protagonist, Beth, I too was harboring a lie of omission—“the worst [kind],” according to my eighteen-year-old character, Kate.

Unbeknownst to my mom, she would be moving into memory care the following week. I’d stay with her for two days, then return home. My heart was breaking.

I spent several fitful nights lying beside her in her queen-size bed, agonizing about leaving and wishing for clairvoyance. If I knew Mom’s days were numbered, I would power alongside her until the end.

But then moving day arrived. I chased sleep for two nights in memory care, tucked into a rollaway at the foot of her twin bed. Every cell in my body ached at the thoughts of saying goodbye.

I waited until the last minute to tell Mom I was leaving. She was in the living room, watching a musical with several of the ladies. I said quiet goodbyes to staff and some of the residents, then squatted in front of her chair. I still had vacation time, plus hadn’t dipped into the Family and Medical Leave Act, but I couldn’t admit that staying and watching her decline was so damn hard. Instead, I lied and said, “I have to go back to work.”

“You do?” Anguish filled her face, and her eyes puddled as she grabbed my hands.

“I do.” I straightened, then added “I’ll be back,” and kissed the top of her head through my mask. “I’ll call you when I get home,” I said, knowing my standard words were a fib now too. “I love you,” I managed, unable to stop the quiver, but turning before tears streaked my cheeks.

I did go back, including for a weeklong stay and some other overnights throughout the next twenty-six months. During that time, Mom graduated from hospice care twice, then was referred a third time the day before she died. I was blessed to be at her bedside when she exhaled a final, peaceful sigh.

In truth, I’m grateful for more than sixty years of memories.

Kay & Dan Antonietti 1995.
Kay & Dan Antonietti 1995

I’m also grateful that, whether my mom is somewhere over the rainbow or on the other side of the veil, her journey through dementia is over and she’s living her new, best life.

Silver bowl after second cleaning.

Lessons in Chemistry and More

Bird by bird. I repeated the mantra I’d lifted from the title of a beloved Anne Lamott book, then climbed onto a stool. On a mission to purge, I knew a silver platter lay nestled in the far reaches of the cabinet above the refrigerator. But I couldn’t remember what else was up there.

Atop the platter was a silver-rimmed glass bowl. Wedding gifts, both were untouched since we’d moved into this house thirty-one years ago. The final, forgotten item—a silver bowl, monogramed with my mother’s maiden name initials—made my heart skitter. I couldn’t recall when my mom had gifted it to me.

Monogramed, tarnished silver bowl. Lessons in chemistry and more.

I set aside the platter and glass bowl to donate to Secret Seconds, my favorite thrift store. Then I studied my mom’s bowl. Its discoloration made me certain I’d tucked it away with plans to clean it one day.

That day had finally arrived.

The bowl’s heavy tarnish led me to wonder if it was sterling silver. Internet sleuthing schooled me otherwise: the letters EPNS on the back of the bowl meant it was silver plated. The internet provided cleaning recipes too. The first recipe removed some of the tarnish. More so though, its combination of salt, baking soda, aluminum foil, and boiling water evoked memories of the rotten-egg odors of Yellowstone National Park. A follow-up remedy of baking soda paste restored more of the silver’s luster.

Silver bowl with baking soda paste. Lessons in chemistry and more.

The bowl is now displayed in our dining room which, until we cleaned out the family home in 2018, had only a photo gallery and dining set.

Treasures from three generations. Lessons in chemistry and more.

I wish I had unearthed Mom’s bowl in 2019 during her final visit to Missoula. Her memory was slipping, but I believe she could have told me the Who When Why behind the bowl, even if she couldn’t remember when she had given it to me. I’m sure she relayed those details when she gave me the bowl.

Years ago, I remember her telling me that her aunts and uncles gave her sterling silverware for birthdays and Christmases when she was a teen and young adult. She said, “Whenever I opened another piece of silverware I wanted to throw up. I wished I’d gotten a pair of clam diggers instead.”

Catherine Ann. 8th grade, 1945.
Catherine Ann. 8th grade, 1945.

That story made me laugh.

Since the bowl sports my mom’s maiden name initials, I’m sure she received it sometime before 1952. That year was significant for three reasons. In the order of their occurrence: my mother got engaged; she graduated from Carroll College with a nursing degree; and she turned twenty-one.

At some point in the ensuing years, Mom occasionally noted gift giver’s names and dates on the backs or bottoms of gifts. Perhaps she gleaned that habit after taping her name on the bottoms of numerous dessert and casserole dishes that she dropped off for potlucks or to feed bereaved families. In her 80s, she had said, “If there’s anything you want, write your name and tape it on there so I’ll remember.”

I hadn’t written my name anywhere before we gathered at 5 Wood Court in 2018. But I treasure the keepsakes that memorialize Mom’s handwriting. The dates are precious too. 1969. 1979. 2003.

Keepsakes from 1969, 1979, 2003, and unknown date. Lessons in chemistry and more.

Some gifts, journeying full circle, made their way back to me.  

Keepsakes from my mother's home, including two gifts I had given her twenty-one and forty-four years ago. Lessons in chemistry and more.

 

Dan Antonietti letter from Kumagaya, Japan1/24/47

A Legacy of Love

My eighty-seven-year-old father waved a greeting card over his shoulder one summer afternoon. “All those letters I sent your grandmother are up in the garage.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had them. Should I get ‘em down?”

“Not now.”

I recalled his casual comments about writing to Nana every day while he was in the Army. She had been a sentimental saver. My dad and mom were too.

Dubbed “Papa and Gram” following the arrival of grandchildren, my parents had amassed two file cabinets full of greeting cards and mementoes. An array of manila folders, labeled in Papa’s perfect handwriting, peppered our laps and the living room floor. A brother, his two prepubescent daughters, Papa, Gram and I perused the folders’ contents. Birthday and holiday cards, get-well wishes and retirement congratulations painted snapshots of the previous years.

Papa died sixteen months later. The letters he had sent Nana sat untouched in the rafters for another year-and-a-half. Then, after Gram moved into a senior living community, six of my siblings and I gathered to clear out the family home. The box of letters made the cut, and I carried them into Gram’s two-bedroom apartment that evening.

During my overnight visits with her throughout the next eighteen months, we reveled in those letters.

A son's 1947 letter weaves a legacy of love.
January 24, 1947 letter from Kumagaya, Japan

Penned by eighteen-and nineteen-year-old Private—and later Private First Class—Dan Antonietti, the careful cursive portrayed a son and brother’s loving devotion. Every missive also acknowledged his Butte, Montana neighbors.

Dan Antonietti, 82nd Field Artillery, 1st Calvary Division, Japan.
Dan Antonietti, Japan

Sprinkled throughout were mentions of his fierce bonds with his cohorts and dog.

Dan Antonietti and buddies--82nd Field Artillery, 1st Calvary Division, Japan.
Dan Antonietti and buddies, Japan
Dan Antonietti and buddies--82nd Field Artillery, 1st Calvary Division, Japan.
Dan Antonietti, 3rd from left
Photos during Japanese occupation, 1947.
Dan Antonietti, Ingle and Rivets. Kumagaya, Japan, 1947

Papa Dan’s love, loyalty and generous spirit blossomed as he became an uncle, husband, father and grandfather. On quiet evenings when Gram and I devoured his letters, we basked in memories of his attentiveness and grace.

Four-and-a-half years have passed since we lost our Papa. Gram is in her third apartment in the senior living community, having segued from independent living to assisted living to memory care. Outside her door, a picture of her and Papa complements her biography.

Dan & Kay Antonietti, 1965, site of Seattle's World Fair.
Dan & Kay Antonietti, Seattle 1965

Sometimes she remembers Papa is gone, other times she does not. But the picture—which she often refers to as “our first date”—always makes her smile.

Project Steady Eddie

I am four-plus weeks into my gig as an essential caregiver for my eighty-nine-year-old mother. Sitting in her dentist’s reception area while my sister scheduled a return appointment, Mom felt “dizzy,” so stood for reasons unknown. Up one moment, down the next, then an ambulance transported her to the hospital because she could not bear weight on her right leg.

She fractured her pelvis in two places. Neither break required surgery, but she was admitted for therapy and pain management. More lucid than not while she was in the Emergency Department (ED), Mom was not granted an essential caregiver beyond the ED due to COVID-19 visitor restrictions. A bed alarm, a video camera, and a room near the nurses’ station superseded having a family member at the bedside.

Three days later, I was allowed into the hospital for discharge instructions. COVID-19 visitor restrictions were in place at Mom’s senior living community too. But administration gave me permission—following a COVID-19 test—to quarantine with her and help with rehab.

Sometimes Mom remembers why we’re roommates in her assisted living apartment. Other times she does not. Some days I’m “Karen.” Other days I’m not.

She had a walker before her fall, but it sat—unused —outside her door. Mom was given a slower, two-wheel walker in the hospital, which she uses in her apartment. Last week she graduated to her four-wheel walker for outdoor treks and walks around the community. But she doesn’t always remember she needs wheels whenever she’s up.

“Who’s the little lady that belongs to that?” she asked days ago, pointing to the two-wheel walker parked beside her dinette table.

“You’re the little lady that belongs to that. Steady Eddie,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re Steady, and this is Eddie.” I patted the walker. “You two are a team.”

“Oh, my,” Mom said with a grin.

Kay Antonietti, November 2020
Mom and her wheels

This Thanksgiving week, we’ll celebrate what would have been my dad’s ninety-third birthday. And we’ll offer prayers of gratitude for Mom’s continued healing and our sweet bonding time.

Father’s Day

We lost our Papa in January. In the months that followed, I cocooned myself in his gold and brown sweatshirt, its softness and scent comforts on cold winter nights. Colors of Capital High School Bruins, the frayed neck and sleeves bore evidence of the years Papa spent cheering for his grandchildren.

A special sweatshirt. 2009.
A special sweatshirt. 2009.

On his eighty-ninth birthday, Dad asked, “Do you think I’ll live to be a hundred?” His question earnest, we vowed to have a ninetieth birthday bash if he made it that long.

He didn’t. He died less than six weeks later, five days after breaking his hip. As we surrounded his hospital bed, I was reminded of a family gathering twelve years prior.

Please keep everyone healthy and safe had been my silent plea, Dad foremost in my mind as extended family bid Eric bon voyage. Not yet seventeen, Eric was headed to Argentina for a yearlong study abroad. I fought tears when he said goodbye to his Papa, wondering if it would be the last time they would see each other.

Ten days ago, Eric received his MPA from UW’s Evans School of Public Policy and Governance.  Gram with us to celebrate, I felt Papa’s presence, too. And when I saw the photo, I knew.

Papa's presence in a wisp of a rainbow.
Affirmation.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.