Hello 49

Cherished Readers,

On Monday, November 4, 2024, Mom passed away in her sleep. She was 97. She left a full and inspiring legacy of her thirst for life. She raised four accomplished children, had two loves, and ferried private letters to the Vatican for the Archbishop of Worcester Diocese. If she believed that something should be achieved, she found a way to achieve it.
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Here is the story of her life, plus the epilogue. Enjoy.

MOM'S STORY, “Martha Walsh, A Model Professional of Her Time,” an essay finalist in the 2019 Adelaide Literary Awards, anthology (print only) reprinted on Medium.com below.
medium.com/@ekilcoyne10/born-in-1926-a-model-professional-of-her-time-7ea5b440c729,

Mom and the Fonz in 1993 at Bill Clinton's Inauguration

EPILOGUE
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Mom smiles when I show her photos of her great-grandchildren. She spits at me when she doesn't like what I'm saying. She rolls her eyes with a long sigh if I repeat myself or treat her like a child. She knows what I'm saying. A few years ago, she broke her hip. Her cognitive decline limited her ability to process physical therapy instructions in the nursing home. She cannot stand. She cannot speak; she only babbles. She sits in a wheelchair with her hands frozen in a fist. She cannot feed herself. But even with these limitations, Mom is still in there. Though her words are few, the spark in her eyes tells me she understands the changes around her, a testament to the fierce spirit that has defined her life. Our visits usually make me feel better, knowing she continues to live the best life she can.
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Mom lived in Ormond Beach, Florida. After they retired, she moved there with her second husband, Robert Walsh. Bob was a good man who loved Mom with every ounce of energy. Mom relished his attention. They traveled. They joined the country club. They golfed. They danced all night. Their life was beyond Mom's wildest dreams. This joy lasted eight years; then, Bob died of a sudden, massive heart attack.

Mom lost her anchor, her reliable rock, and was adrift for a time.  She first moved to a condo with too many rules about flowers and minimal contact with neighbors. Mom is a people person, and this posed an emotional challenge. Then she moved to a house where she took on the mortgage for $1. She said it was a drug house. I’m not sure, but Mom found herself again in this house and made it her own.
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Carol, a neighbor who understood Mom’s need for companionship, became her confidante and travel buddy to cultural events, again bringing joy to her days. They were serious plant collaborators. Carol had a night-blooming cereus, which bloomed once a year at a time when most people were asleep. They sat on Carol's porch, drinking tea and telling childhood stories. The cereus finally unfolded its petals and released a hypnotic scent. They talked about it for days. These were precious days for Mom. Delores, Mom's other good friend, lived on the other side of town. She and Mom dined in each other's homes and played cards late into the evening. Sometimes, they had sleepovers like teenagers. Her vegetable garden flourished under Mom's attentive care during spare moments.

Leaving Florida
While the memories of Florida were filled with joy, the reality of moving back home was about to unfold, bringing its own set of challenges. Mom had difficulty cooking and remembering to turn off the stove as the years passed. Carol and other neighbors called with concern. Mom lived alone and still drove. We flew to Florida to bring Mom home. My brother Sean came from San Francisco. My sister, Martha Jr., and I came from Boston. We all arrived the same day and overwhelmed Mom with the idea of moving back to Massachusetts. She knew this move was coming. We discussed it many times. But leaving her friends, her garden, and her cherished freedom would still be hard.
A good life and memories filled Mom's home. We went through every drawer, box, and corner of the house, including the garage. My assignment was to sort out her fabulous jewelry and fashionable clothes. She had sequined jackets, jewels on her blouses, and negligees suitable for a princess. I slipped a black sheath with pink and green embroidered roses into my suitcase for a future time. Martha Jr. worked with Mom’s papers and china, which needed to go to Massachusetts. Sean and I went to Walmart to collect moving boxes. It was open 24 hours a day and stocked its shelves at midnight. Somehow, we knew this and garnered a massive supply of boxes. When a stock person realized we were collecting them, he stopped cutting the boxes and moved them our way.

Martha Jr. found a company that organized the sale of “house contents.” A nurse and teacher owned the company and had sales on their days off. It had little overhead and a considerable following. The company advertised, showed up, and priced most items, leaving the rest for the “best offer.”We loaded items for Massachusetts into a trailer in the yard. Our brother, Steve, later took it north. Everything that was not going north remained in its place: clothes in the closets, dishes in the cupboards, beds in the bedrooms, and potpourri in the garage.

This was a big move for Mom. She was leaving her home to move into a one-bedroom senior living apartment 1,300 miles away. Sean took Mom to Daytona Beach to distract her on the sale day. Watching her precious treasures go out the door with strangers was heartbreaking. I'm glad she wasn't there. By mid-afternoon, the sale was complete. A nonprofit organization was waiting to take the rest away; Mom's house was empty.

When I returned home, I flew immediately to Portland, Oregon, to greet my new and first grandson, Archie. The cycle of life was on my mind. This precious baby was a new beginning, and Mom was slowing down. We had applied for senior housing the year before. We hoped her name would soon reach the top of the list at a building in downtown Ipswich. I had lived in town for three decades, and Mom knew it well through her holiday visits. She moved into my house to wait for her next adventure in senior living.

Before I left for Florida, I met someone I wanted to see again. Now, my mom was living with me. Denis arrived for the weekend and asked, "When did your mother move in?" We have been married for seven years now. Looking back, it was funny, though the situation felt awkward then. Mom has difficulty with boundaries and pursued Denis with uncomfortable questions. Her apartment was ready in a few months. Her furniture arrived from Florida. Friends loaned her a bed. She found comfort in being closer to family.

"Can Catholics come to church here?"
Next to Mom's senior housing was a Baptist church. My mother was born a Baptist and became a Roman Catholic when she moved north to marry my father. Although I tried, I did not get my mother to Mass every Sunday, not even close. She walked next door to the Baptist church and asked, "Can Catholics come to church here?" They welcomed her, and she never looked back.

Ipswich is a historic community with homes dating back to the 17th century. It boasts the beautiful Crane Beach and a small downtown area with many restaurants. Mom became friends with the owners of all the restaurants. She ate at least one meal daily at the Subway across the street from her building. After a few years, she had difficulty crossing the street alone. The owner of the Subway asked her to call him when she was coming, and either he or one of his customers would cross her. All the locals looked out for Martha. When she entered Zumi's Coffeehouse, the barista shouted, "Here's the Queen of Ipswich! One hot chocolate for Martha." Mom loved that attention and made many visits to Zumi’s.

She was also a regular at the Dollar Store. The cashiers helped her as if she were their mother. She "borrowed" the shopping cart to take her purchases home. They knew she'd be back in a day or so. My friends visited her, stopped by with dinner and flowers, and asked if she needed anything. Once, a stranger called me and said he had helped my mother at the bank ATM. Ipswich is one of those towns where people look out for one another.

Mom thrived in the Baptist Church. She hosted Bible studies in her apartment; no one knew the Bible like Mom. In her late eighties, she met a new best friend, Marilyn, who moved into the senior apartment building. She and Marilyn went everywhere together. Marilyn was in her sixties and had a car. I checked in on Mom daily but sometimes couldn't find her. Her phone was less critical with Marilyn when they were out and about, and she didn't always answer. She and Marilyn babysat her granddaughter. Crossing the street in front of their building felt unsafe. So, they petitioned to fix the sidewalk and remove a blocking parking space. They brought these to the town Select Board. In her late eighties, Mom highlighted the danger of the big holes. Then, the town made the repairs and cleared the space. After that, they went to the dollar store without any difficulty. Unfortunately, Marilyn died a few years later, and Mom was heartbroken. Her best friend was gone, and her cognitive decline began.

Mom's safety became a concern. She told me, "Elizabeth, don't worry. If I can't find my way home, everyone downtown knows me and will make sure I arrive home safely." That's the people of Ipswich. 

“What kind of eggs do you eat?”
Mom needed more care after five years of living alone in her apartment. But she was reluctant to give up her independence and her church. I fully supported her move to assisted living, but I didn’t know how much I would miss her. Christopher Heights in Marlborough, Massachusetts, would be her new home. She would be closer to my sister, Martha Jr., and the rest of the family. The Heights was a beautiful colonial-style building, and everyone she met was friendly. My sister tells this story: the director asked Mom what kind of eggs she liked. It was during her lunch interview with the admissions team. Mom said, "Chicken! What kind of eggs do you eat?" They thought she'd fit right in. That was June 2018. 

Her apartment at the Heights was warm and cozy. On her 94th birthday, I walked into her room. The sun was shining through the blue and white sheer curtains. Mom sat at her white wrought-iron breakfast table. She was surrounded by the last of her belongings. A curio cabinet held her treasures, family photos covered every surface, and a red Christmas bow hung over her bed. She wore a pink jacket with rhinestone brooches, a black and white leopard blouse, and her signature beret. She exuded elegance.

She had an expectant look as if something was about to happen. I tied a "Happy Birthday" balloon to her walker. Then, we took a ceremonial tour around her assisted living residence. There were some congratulatory greetings and a few short chats. The aide who had dressed Mom that morning admired her handiwork.

We settled in the living room and read cards from her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends. There were many, and it took a while. We returned to the elevator and retired to her room to indulge in hot tea and mini whoopie pies.

Mom spent 2 ½ years making friends and generally enjoying Christopher Heights. She attended services at Grace Chapel Baptist Church, but it became too overwhelming. She said, “There were too many people doing too many things. No room for Jesus.” As her dementia advanced, Mom grew uneasy with most activities. They required a level of commitment that she could no longer maintain.

The wingback chair beside the lobby's living room fireplace became Mom's comfort spot. She arrived mid-morning to watch the passersby and engage them in conversation. Even though her words came more slowly, Mom always had something interesting to say. She thrived on being the center of attention. Her buddies would meet her there and be the first ones for lunch. On one of her visits to the living room, Mom fell and broke her hip. It healed, but her cognitive phase had limited her ability to manage the walker. A full-time wheelchair was in the future.
Although Mom faced new challenges at Christopher Heights, she embraced each day with the same spirit that had defined her life—a testament to her unwavering zest for living.

Moving Again
After her fall, Mom never returned to Christopher Heights. Martha Jr. and I cleared out her apartment there. We found many items from her past – dog tags from both her husbands, souvenirs from her travels abroad, and a fur coat.
I took Mom’s beautiful clothes home to sort through them. I spread them around me to decide which would accompany her to the nursing home and which I should donate. Loss and memories surrounded me. 
I sent a sequined dress and a witch hat with Mom. I kept her red velvet coat and plan to give it to her granddaughter, who is a designer.

Mom lived at Knollwood Nursing Center in Worcester, Massachusetts, until she died. The staff there liked her, and she seemed happy. Because Mom is very social, she spent her days at the nursing station. She could see everyone passing by, and all said “hello” to her. Everyone loves Martha!

Rest in Peace, Mom.

​Elizabeth Kilcoyne, November 22, 2024

I am grateful for family and wish you all a healthy Thanksgiving time.