A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [49]
In some ways, her presence seemed natural for both Diane and me, having grown up in multigenerational households. But this arrangement required many sacrifices. In Brooklyn, my mom saw specialists who gave her medication that helped her regain her mobility, but her spirits suffered horribly, and her emotional decline wore everyone down. She helped when she could, especially when Katherine was born and we could not find a suitable sitter to manage both kids. But over time my mother seemed to resent her dependence on us, and perhaps even my relationship with Diane, who shouldered an even greater burden around the house. I’ll forever be grateful to Diane for accommodating her. My mother did not always make it easy.
My mom lived with us for twenty years, and whatever her physical or emotional state, it was important to me that she always felt part of our family. In the 1990s, for example, when I was the assistant attorney general for civil rights, the Los Angeles Times wrote a profile on me and sent a photographer to our home for a family picture. Diane, Sarah, Katherine, and I were on the stairs, ready for the shot, when I noticed my mom sitting alone. I told her to get in the picture.
The photographer said, “No, I just want the family.”
I don’t know if he didn’t want her because of her scarred face or—a more generous interpretation—because he wanted only my immediate family. But it didn’t matter.
“My mom is part of this family,” I said.
I knew how self-conscious she was, but I also understood how proud she was of me, Diane, and the girls, and how important it was for her to be included in this photograph. She came over, sat next to Sarah and Katherine, and smiled.
In the summer of 1993, while my father was visiting, Rhonda and I took a long walk with him and our kids on the Freedom Trail in Boston. It was a hot day, and we stopped for a cool drink and a bite to eat at an open-air restaurant at Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Suddenly the color drained from my father’s face, his speech began to slur, and he collapsed in a seizure. The restaurant summoned an ambulance. The kids were frightened and upset, so I took them home while Rhonda rode with Pat to the hospital. He was diagnosed with leukemia. Not long after, he left New York and returned to his hometown of East Moline, Illinois, to be close to his mother and other family members. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but he was going home to die. Late that year, we were preparing to go on a cruise, and I got word before we boarded in Miami to call my father. From a pay phone in the Miami airport, I reached him at his hospital, still not fully understanding how grave his condition was. His voice was weak, unlike I had ever known it, but also eerily calm. He said frankly that he thought the end was near; he did not need me to come but just wanted to say good-bye. I told him that I loved him, and I meant it.
“I’m not quite ready to let go of you yet,” I said.
I meant that, too. It was the last time we spoke.
It was my mother who called us ship to shore on New Year’s Day to say my father had passed away. Her voice cracked. I sat for a long time alone on the deck, staring out at the tropical sea, trying to figure out how I felt. Sad. Regretful. Forgiving. Admiration for his total dedication to his art. Understanding how we muddle along, bumping into circumstance and opportunity and tragedy, but ultimately having faith in the people closest to us.
More than a full decade would pass before my mother became gravely ill with hepatitis and uterine cancer. In a life of many difficult moments and with so many reasons for regret, I believe she deserved all the tenderness and friendship that Diane and I, as well as my sister and her husband, could give her. Despite her often unfair treatment of Diane, in her final year it was frequently Diane who would feed and bathe her and keep her company. At the end, she was in the same nursing home where my grandmother