Tag Archives: mothers

Truth. Lies. Priceless Memories.

January 7, 2024Mothersassisted living, COVID-19, dementia, hospice, lies, memories, memory care, mothers, Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools, therapeutic fibbing, TikTok, truthKaren Buley

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.

TikTok and Angels

November 16, 2023Angelsafterlife, angels, book clubs, crows, Father's Day, fathers, Memorial Rose Garden Park, Missoula, Montana State Vietnam Veterans Memorial, mothers, Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools, Proof of Angels, PWWPT, spirits, thin veil, TikTok, writingKaren Buley

I was energized by a coed book club’s discussion about Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools last month. Our conversation wove around my writing process and the book’s themes and characters. Some readers wished for a map. Others wished for recipes. Two weeks later, I created a TikTok account to share slices of Missoula, recipes and more.

Three days ago, I headed to Memorial Rose Garden Park, hoping to videotape a crow.

A bit of backstory—

My dad’s (misspelled) name, Dan Antonietti, is memorialized there on the Montana State Vietnam Veterans Memorial Committees plaque.

Dad died in January 2017. Months later, family members gathered on Father’s Day in remembrance of our patriarch. As we shared brunch around my mom’s dining room table, a crow perched on the deck railing outside the sliding glass door. “That’s Papa,” I said.

Knives and forks stilled as three generations studied the sleek black bird. He studied us back.

Ever since, I have looked and listened for crows. I’ve asked Papa for signs of support, too. When Mom, a child of the Great Depression, struggled with feelings of guilt about buying a wall-mounted TV and small dining set before downsizing into a senior living apartment, a crow landed atop Best Buy.

Another—or perhaps the same—cawed from a light post outside a furniture shop. “Papa’s saying, ‘Thumbs up, Catherine Ann,'” I said.

Mom looked at me and grinned.

On move-in day, a bittersweet heaviness hung in the air. I begged Papa to let us know he was with us. As Mom and I drove into the parking lot of her new home, a crow settled high atop the flagpole where an American flag rippled in the breeze. I gestured toward the perfect vantage point for our proud, World War II veteran. “There’s Papa,” I managed, the words thick in my throat.

“This is a nice place, Papa,” Mom said. Her blue eyes sparkled when she met my gaze.

I have felt my dad’s presence at other times, too. When I pulled out my cellphone to call Mom on their sixty-third wedding anniversary, the first since Dad died, “MOM…calling” appeared on my cellphone screen before I tapped a single button.

Three weeks later, a document titled “Dad extra” popped open on my computer screen while I was working on my novel. Memories of the question he’d often asked, “How’s your book coming, Sweetheart?” rolled through my mind.

The day I posted a picture of Papa and Gov. Steve Bullock on my blog page, a new tab opened to my website. And as I lay in bed early one morning reading Proof of Angels, a burst of static erupted, then stopped. When the static resumed a minute later, I reached for the clock radio. Unused for years, the radio was on.

So, when I neared Rose Park three days ago, I spoke in the quiet of my heart. I need you, Papa.

Entering the park, I heard Caw Caw Caw.

I didn’t spot him right away.

Caw Caw Caw Caw Caw.

I looked up. There was a crow, perched high in a tree. He stayed there for three minutes, and I posted a bit of him on TikTok the following day.

Yesterday, I opened my phone’s camera, selected front-facing video, then propped the phone against a lamp. Instead of hitting the red record button, I moved away to check the screen view. Moments later, my image disappeared and the TikTok video—saved to my Photos app—began to play.

Papa is with me still.

Lessons in Chemistry and More

October 8, 2023MementoesAnne Lamott, Bird by Bird, chemistry, clam diggers, gifts, keepsakes, mantra, memories, milestones, mothers, purging, Secret Seconds, silver, silver plate, treasures, Yellowstone National ParkKaren Buley

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.”

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.

Baby Charley, Butte, Montana, 1954

May 14, 2023Mothers1954, babies, Baby Charley, blankets, Butte, dementia, Montana, Mother's Day, mothers, news articles, nurses, PWWPT, St. James HospitalKaren Buley

I was a teenager when my mother told me about Baby Charley. He was found in the backseat of a car outside the all-boys Catholic high school in Butte, Montana in 1954. Boys rushed him to the nearby rectory, but a priest directed them to reroute to St. James Hospital, two-and-a-half blocks away.

The story was shared in newspapers around the state.

The Daily Missoulian news article about Baby Charlie, Friday, October 22, 1954. — *The Daily Missoulian,* Friday, October 22, 1954

My mom, newly married and unbeknownst at the time, newly pregnant, was preparing for the oncoming nurses when she heard pounding on the alleyway door. She asked a janitor to open it. “Petrified” boys passed the baby to the janitor, who quickly handed the baby to her.

“Baby Charley” as he was named, was at St. James for about two months, according to my mom. “Everybody loved him—the priests and nuns and doctors—and lots of boys would come in and talk to him and play with him. He was well taken care of.”

She dressed him the morning he was scheduled to leave with his adoptive parents. Mom had a meeting though, so was sad she did not meet the couple when they arrived to take Baby Charley home.

When I was eight, we relocated from Missoula to Butte and moved into my mom’s cousin’s home across from St. James Hospital. The hospital was boarded up by then, replaced by a new building a few blocks away. I traipsed past the old hospital’s alleyway door thousands of times in the ensuing years, walking to and from church and school. The all-boys’ high school became mine, having transitioned to coed in the 1960’s. After learning about Baby Charley, I often imagined the boys’ angst as they rushed to the rectory, then hurried to the nearest hospital door they could find.

Mom repeated the story throughout the years, the last time in early 2020 as we visited in her independent living apartment. “He was inside a paper bag, dressed and wrapped in a blanket. He had a sugar tit in his mouth, and he had beautiful red hair…” She paused. “I hope he’s doing okay.”

“I bet he is,” I said, studying the black and white photograph featuring Baby Charley and my twenty-three-year-old mother. Clad in her white cap and starched nurse’s uniform, she’s smiling at Charley, whose tiny fingers are curled around her finger.

Kay Antonietti & Baby Charlie, St. James Hospital; Butte, Montana; 1954 — Kay Antonietti & Baby Charley; St. James Hospital; Butte, Montana; 1954

The photo, which Mom kept in her cedar chest, was taken for a follow-up news article. “Picture no. 3; 2 col Sun; bottom, pg. 4;” was scribbled across its back. But instead of publishing the photograph of Baby Charley and my mother, the newspaper published a photo of him and a nursing supervisor instead.

My mom passed away on March 18, 2023. Two days ago, I washed the linens that had cocooned her, and my sister and me, during Mom’s final hours. I also laundered a pair of plush throws. The blankets rushed memories of Mom and I snuggled under them during our fourteen weeks together after she broke her pelvis in October 2020. Swathed in comfort and warmth, we’d watch “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune.” We’d reminisce too, and sometimes when dementia took hold, she’d ask, “Where’s the baby?”

A childbirth educator and decades-long nurse, mother of eight, grandmother of fourteen and great-grandmother of twelve, Mom could have been referring to a number of babies. But during those weeks I hunkered in Assisted Living with her, she often lived in the past.

On this Mother’s Day I wonder, as I have before, if the infant Mom worried about was Baby Charley. My years of teaching Lamaze classes and working as an OB nurse, coupled with the creation of characters for my novel Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools, colored my emotions as I contemplated Baby Charley’s birth and his birth mother’s courage, strength, heartache and love.

Mom’s plush throws are washed and tucked away. I imagine gifting one blanket to Charley. If his birth mother is still alive, I imagine gifting her the other. Full circle from the young nurse who welcomed and loved Baby Charley nearly sixty-nine years ago.

Cultivating Awe and Embracing Hope

April 9, 2023Aweawe, Dacher Keltner, death, Easter, heaven, hope, Lydia Polgreen, Mary Magdalene, mothers, Prayer, siblingsKaren Buley

My sweet mom passed away on March 18. She had had a marked decline the day before—Saint Patrick’s Day—which, my siblings and I agreed, would have been a perfect day for our Irish Catholic mom to earn her angel wings.

Kay Antonietti on her 90th birthday, August 7, 2021.

Coincidentally, in January I had been invited to give today’s Easter homily at Spirit of Peace. I understand people hold innumerable philosophical and spiritual beliefs. But in sharing this portion of my homily, my wish is that words of hope, awe, and ultimately, my mother’s gift, touch your heart as they did mine.

After mulling these readings [Acts 10:34a, 37-43; John 20:1-9] and the continuation of John’s Gospel in January, I tucked away the words joy, hope and rebirth. Serendipity intervened weeks later when I discovered a link to a New York Times article in my inbox. The article’s title, “How a Bit of Awe Can Improve Your Health,” and its one-sentence summary, “Experts say wonder is an essential human emotion—and a salve for a turbulent mind,” drew me in.

Imagine the wonder and awe Mary Magdalene experienced when she witnessed the Risen Christ!

UC Berkeley psychologist Dacher Keltner defines awe as “the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world.” He authored a recent book titled, Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life. According to the book blurb, “Keltner shows us how cultivating awe in our everyday life leads us to appreciate what is most humane in our human nature. And during a moment in which our world feels more divided than ever before, and more imperiled by crises of different kinds, we are greatly in need of awe.”

I didn’t realize how great my need for awe was until I presided last month. Plagued by so many disturbing legislative bills and votes that harm students, educators, the LGBTQ+ community, people living in poverty and more, I was overcome by the power of Susan’s Eucharistic Prayer. You witnessed the tremble in my voice as I prayed, “Enable us to become what You long for us to be—people filled with love, awe, grace and compassion,” and “We affirm our unity with people everywhere and express our belief in the dream of God for a time of peace, love, goodness and grace.”

Five days after I proclaimed that prayer, some of my siblings and I had the privilege of gathering with our mom as she prepared to journey home. After nineteen hours, my sister Laurie and I remained. Mom’s ragged breathing quieted, and her mouth moved in a slow, rhythmic cadence. I changed the background music to Calm Celtic Harp and, a minute later, she released a final sigh. Reverent stillness bathed the room as Laurie and I kissed our mom’s cheeks and caressed her rosary-draped hands.

We marvel at first breaths and last, springtime and candlelight, the whisper of leaves rustling in a breeze and a crow’s insistent caw-caw-caw, which reminds my family our Papa is near.

We are awed by fire and water, everyday acts of kindness, morning light and the evening sky when an Eskimo Proverb affirms, “Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.”

Days after my mom passed, I revisited a New York Times opinion piece I’d saved last fall. In an op-ed titled “What My Father’s Death Taught Me About Living,” Lydia Polgreen wrote in part about reconnecting with her estranged father. She said, “The things he failed to provide were nothing compared with what he had given me: the raw materials for a life filled with adventure, connection and meaning. A belief in the fundamental goodness of people across all kinds of difference. A commitment to trying to understand the world and make it understandable to others.”

She continued, “I realize now that the most precious thing my father gave me was an example of how to live a life devoid of cynicism and pessimism. He was a dreamer and an optimist, sometimes to an absurd and even dangerous degree. But a bias toward the vulnerability of hope—that is a true gift.”

My mother gave the same to me.

Two-and-a-Half Years and Counting

January 5, 2023Mothersdementia, hospice, mothers, Please See Me, writingKaren Buley

I have written snippets about my mother’s journey through dementia and am proud to share “I Was Really Scared Last Night” which was recently published in Please See Me. An online literary journal, Please See Me’s mission is “to elevate the voices and stories of vulnerable populations, and those who care for them.”

When I visited my mom a couple of weeks ago, she greeted me with an “Oh my God,” as I bent to kiss her cheek.

My mother, Kay Antonietti. — Kay Antonietti, cuddled under an afghan from a hospice volunteer December 17, 2022

And this week, after demonstrating an upswing, she graduated from hospice care. Her heartrate has normalized, she is more awake, her appetite and ability to feed herself have improved, and she has more frequent episodes of coherent speech.

Her eyes still hold their sparkle, and every day with her is a gift.

A Horoscope. A Muse. A Tiny Love Story.

November 23, 2021Writingdementia, horoscopes, Miya Lee, mothers, muse, The New York Times, Tiny Love Stories, writingKaren Buley

I read my horoscope nearly every day. Sometimes, I run with its forecast. Other times, I ignore every word. And on occasion, I embrace the parts I like and disregard the rest.

Eleven days ago, my horoscope’s opening line, “You’re in touch with your muse today, which is why this is a productive day for those of you who work in the arts or creative projects,” nudged me to revisit my writing from the previous year.

An inspirational horoscope led to publication in The New York Times. — November 12, 2021

I focused on a 100-word story I had written about my mom and me for The New York Times Tiny Love Stories. After submitting the piece last November, I envisioned seeing it and an accompanying photo online and perhaps in print.

I did not.

Rereading my story, I resolved to try again. I scoured other Tiny Love Stories, certain their words were my muse. Then I plunged in, narrowing my story to a single moment.

Four days after that prophetic horoscope, I received an email from NYT editor Miya Lee. One week later, my amended Tiny Love Story was published online in The New York Times.

Oh. My. Heart.

Flexibility, Resilience and the Art of Friendship

September 18, 2021Friendshipassisted living, books, Butte, COVID-19, dementia, Eileen Garvin, fathers, flexibility, friendship, memory care, Montana Book Festival, mothers, Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools, reading, resilience, Steve Bullock, TouchmarkKaren Buley

The past eighteen months reinforced the notion that life doesn’t always go according to plan. As Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools neared its pub date in spring, 2020, I envisioned a book release party. In addition to a short reading, there would be food, drink and conversation—a tribute to the lively evenings my characters shared throughout the book. I pictured additional book readings to follow. Then COVID-19 reared its ugly head.

Montana Gov. Steve Bullock ordered a temporary shelter-in-place. As I wrote here, I had much to be thankful for. Thus, scrapping a book launch seemed a small price to pay. While I hunkered in, I scoured how-to guides on do-it-yourself book trailers. Both teacher and student, this was my result.

Five months after Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools made its quiet entrance into the world, I hunkered in again—this time in an assisted living neighborhood. My eighty-nine-year-old mother had broken her pelvis. Though Touchmark, her senior living community, was locked down, administration welcomed me in as her essential caregiver.

Once our two-week cautionary quarantine ended, we walked in and around the community, both with and without her physical therapist. My mom’s pelvic fractures healed in the fourteen weeks she and I bunked together. Sadly, her dementia worsened.

The week before she moved into a memory care unit, Mom had a front-row seat at the inaugural reading of Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools. Touchmark’s COVID-19 precautions remained in place, so the group was limited to a small number of masked and socially distanced residents.

Wearing both mask and face shield, I gazed at the audience and contemplated my mom. Her sparkling blue eyes shone with pride. As I began to read, a rush of heat coursed through me. I was reading to two of my biggest fans—one in person and the other in spirit. Mom’s eyes flickered shut at times, but she beamed during the applause.

Nearly eight months have passed since, heavyhearted, I packed my bags and returned home. The weeks I spent with my mom, culminating with two nights in memory care, were priceless. I treasure our continued visits. But with the uptick in Montana’s COVID-19 cases, I pray her community will not have to endure another lockdown.

Next month, I will hold my mom and dad in my heart when I present Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools to a bigger audience. I’m thrilled to be joining Eileen Garvin for a Montana Book Festival event—With a Little Help From My Friends: Writing Fictional Friendships.

2021_MBF_Event-Image (Friendship-Fiction).jpg

This year’s festival pivoted from a hybrid in-person and online affair to an entirely virtual event. But again, as thousands continue to lose loved ones and struggle in innumerable ways, foregoing an in-person book event feels like a small price to pay.

My parents modeled flexibility and resilience. They also taught me the art of friendship. As a young girl, I didn’t realize the lessons I was gleaning when they hosted an array of friends in our cozy Missoula home. Three or four families would gather, assembling double-digit numbers of offspring. We kids would spill outside and engage in noisy games—the grown-ups settling occasional skirmishes—and some of those kids remain my lifelong friends.

A few years later in Butte, I remember watching with envy as my mom’s “Club” convened at our house. My father would scoot out before the first guest arrived. My siblings and I were allowed a bit of time with the ladies before they broke out the pinochle cards. Then, we would head upstairs to our bedrooms. Peals of laughter, the clink of ice cubes and wafts of cigarette smoke followed us up.

During our shared weeks at Touchmark, my mom didn’t always remember who I was. Sometimes she thought I was her friend Shirley. The name always made me smile. Two of the moms from those early Missoula years were named Shirley. But I was Shirley Reinig, a member of “The Church Ladies”—a newer group of Helena friends. My mom and Shirley were retired nurses and on occasion, Mom worried that we had to go to work. One night, she called from the bedroom minutes after I had helped her tuck into bed. “Shirley?”

Despite the dim light, I could see her furrowed brow as I approached the bed. She didn’t wait for me to respond before rushing, “Do you think we’re going to get canned?”

“No.” I stroked her cheek. “We have the night off.”

“Oh good.” She smiled, then closed her eyes.

Three of “The Church Ladies” celebrating Kay’s 90th birthday.
Kay Antonietti, Shirley Reinig and Joanne Anderson-July 25, 2021

Yes, life doesn’t always go according to plan. So we pivot or punt and, if we’re lucky, we have memories to hold dear. I will forever cherish the irreplaceable weeks I spent with my mom. Lines from the movie Airplane hold new meaning now. And discovering that Mom would be moving into a memory care unit with two other Shirleys felt serendipitous.

Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools is dedicated

To My Friends New, Old, and In-Between

On October 16 at 2:00 PM MDT, Eileen Garvin and I will chat about crafting fictional friendships. Registration is free. So whether you live in Grants Pass, New York City or places in between, I hope you’ll join us.

A Legacy of Love

August 2, 2021FathersArmy, Butte, dogs, fathers, friendship, Japan, letters, mementoes, memories, mothers, sons, veteransKaren Buley

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

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

November 23, 2020Mothers2020, assisted living, COVID-19, essential caregivers, memories, mothers, Thanksgiving, walkersKaren Buley

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.