Forever Sunday: A Mother-Daughter Memoir

By Susan Morley

Susan's mother is difficult, spunky, quirky, and a bit demanding of her, but when her mother gets Alzheimer's, Susan is thrust into a world of ludicrous and sometimes hilarious circumstances and describes in heart-wrenching detail how she deals with feelings of guilt and frustration. She gives us glimpses inside her own life and reveals with honest

• Language: English
• Publisher: author
• Release date: Apr 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736329214

Susan Morley

Susan Morley, born in a military hospital in Shirley, Massachusetts, came to California when she was 12. She worked over 30 years in the California court system and graduated from University of San Francisco. She and her husband love to travel, hike, cook, drink good wine, and spend time with family and friends. They live in El Dorado Hills, California.

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Forever Sunday

Forever Sunday

Forever Sunday

A Mother-Daughter Memoir

Susan Morley

Contents

Dedication

INTRODUCTION

I THE FUNERAL

1 Her Purse

2 The Gathering

II HER STORY

3 Growing Up on the Ranch

4 Holidays

5 Finding Her Path

6 Military Life

III MY STORY

7 My Childhood

8 Pirmasens, Germany

9 El Paso, Texas

10 Susanville, California

11 Red Bluff, California

12 Sacramento, California

13 Heaven or Hell

14 Another Mistake

15 Finally Getting it Right

16 A Long Story Short

17 My Father's Passing

18 Changing Times

IV A SLOW GOODBYE

19 Losing Her Memory

20 In the Hospital Before Diagnosis

21 After Diagnosis

22 Her Final Days

Acknowledgments

About The Author

In memory of my mother

Copyright © 2021 by Susan Morley

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

FOREVER SUNDAY is a work of nonfiction. Some of the names of the individuals featured throughout this book have been changed to protect their privacy.

From THERE’S A HOLE IN MY SIDEWALK: THE ROMANCE OF SELF-DISCOVERY by Portia Nelson. Copyright © 1993 by Portia Nelson. Reprinted with the permission of Beyond Words/Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-7363292-0-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-7363292-1-4  (ebook)

Cover design by Michael Rehder

Unless otherwise noted, all images are courtesy of a private collection.

www.susanmorley-author.com

Printed in the United States of America.

First Edition, 2021

INTRODUCTION

When my mother died in 2013, I started formulating this book even though I realized the window I’d had to ask her questions had forever closed. There is a cruel finality with death. There are no more opportunities to ask questions, no more opportunities to call and say hello, and no more opportunities to go for a visit. Years before she passed, I had the privilege of interviewing her for a women’s history class I was taking. I developed most of my stories about her childhood from this interview and the stories she shared with me over the years. This book not only portrays my mother’s life, but also a large part of my life. It reaches across a span of time beginning when my mother was born , in 1917, and ending with her passing in 2013—96 years.

My mother was born in a time when the world literacy rate was about 23%, a time when it took three months to travel from London to New York by ship, a time when only 8% of the population had telephones, and a time when the horse and buggy were just as common a sight as automobiles. I’m attempting to offer a glimpse of what life was like throughout this history of time and portray a relationship between a mother and her daughter.

I’m writing this book for my children, for my grandchildren, and for future generations so they will discover a part of our family history that might have been lost otherwise. I would have loved to have read a book written by my grandmother or great-grandmother, and that is what perpetually nagged at me and propelled me to write this book.

I’m also writing this book for anybody who has had, or is still dealing with, a loved one with Alzheimer’s disease. This disease is horrific, and those with a loved one in its clutches know the frustration and guilt associated with it. I would also like to draw attention to some of the warning signs of Alzheimer’s, signs that my mother’s health care workers and we, her well-meaning family, sadly missed. I’d like to answer questions about Alzheimer’s disease that would have helped us understand what was happening to my mother earlier.

I have dug down deep inside myself to write a book that is truthful, genuine, and heartfelt. I wrote about events that were integral to my relationship with my mother, that I thought I had locked away and would never share, but in the end I decided they are a huge part of who I am and reveal why I am the person I am today. I therefore couldn’t, if I were to be honest with myself, leave those details out. Writing this book has been incredibly cathartic and therapeutic for me. Writing granted me the opportunity to see the world through my mother’s eyes, and for that reason I’m grateful that I can now look back and see my mother for who she was.

This book covers the beginning of my mother’s early life, parts of my life, how our relationship developed, and the ways in which it changed when Alzheimer’s disease struck.

I

THE FUNERAL

Hello? I answer the phone.

Susan?

Hi, Mom.

How are you this evening? my mother asks.

Tired. I had a long day at work. How was your day?

Well, some religious group came to the door this afternoon and your dad invited them in, she retorts.

Why did he do that? I ask.

I don’t know, you know how he is. He loves a good debate.

Well, I guess it’s better he pick an argument with them than you.

I guess, she admits. They stayed for over an hour.

I can imagine. What did you do during all this?

I sat and watched.

Did you offer them something to eat or drink?

No.

They might have stayed longer if you had, I tease.

That’s why I didn’t. I could not wait until they left. I could have killed your father!

1

Her Purse

* * *

She looked beautiful and serene: her short, full-bodied silver hair beautifully styled. Her large, signature leather purse neatly tucked beside her. Her pale blue eyes closed as though she were asleep. I sat in a pew with the funeral director, feeling drained. Offhandedly, I mentioned that whoever styled my mother’s hair had done an incredible job. He excused himself for a minute, returned, and quietly seated himself next to me again. He had been eager to relay my compliments to the women who had worked on her, since they didn’t often get compliments.

My mother had instructed me to arrange her funeral much like the one we had for my father. She’d detailed step-by-step what she thought a proper funeral entailed. She’d wanted a viewing of her body the day before the service. The next day would be the funeral, where all her friends and family would gather to share our heart-rending grief, as we gazed at her lifeless but dignified body in a beautiful open casket before us. Immediately following the funeral, there was to be a graveside service.

And that is exactly the funeral she had.

She would have loved her funeral, which was packed with friends from all eras of her life. As music softly played in the background, people crowded into the funeral parlor, trying to find a place to sit in the packed room. Many who came to pay their respects were left standing in the back. I was pleased to see such a turnout. She had her friends from her church, bowling team, neighbors, and some friends of mine. Looking around, I realized she had outlived most of her good friends.

I sat in the special pew reserved for family, alongside my husband Sam, my children Rebekah, Matt, and Amanda, and my brother Jim, with their respective families. Jim and I are my mother’s only two children.

Jim and his family lived over 80 miles away, and they usually visited my mother on special occasions and holidays. Sometimes, he came alone, to help her with projects around the house or just to visit. My children, by this time, were adults and had their own relationship with her. They loved the family gatherings at her home, eating her famous chili and sitting around the kitchen table bantering with each other. The memories of those times were our comfort as she started losing awareness of those she loved, long before she passed.

When everyone had found a place to settle, my mother’s pastor got up and said a few words, with an inspirational surrendering to God message. I had picked out a couple of poignant religious songs that I knew were her favorites, for two of her friends to sing. At one point in the service we presented a slide show of my mother’s life, which Sam had judiciously put together. There was a video placed in one section of the slide show that came to life and we saw my mother laughing while pointing her finger in a lecturing manner. Some of the pictures portrayed her as a young mother with her husband and children, bowling as a young woman, or sitting at a slot machine gambling. Her church disapproved of gambling, but my mother wasn’t one to be bothered with rules.

There were also pictures of her after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She had that blank look that develops when the mind falters. After the slide show, it was profoundly quiet, apart from sniffles, rustling of tissue paper, and blowing of noses. I stood up and said a few words, revealing to the audience the meaning of the leather purse beside her body.

Thank you for coming today. I know my mom would be pleased. I want to explain why I placed her purse in the coffin next to her. Her purse was her identity. She never went anywhere without that purse and even when she ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, she slept with it by her side. There were times she forgot who I was, but she never forgot her purse. Inside the purse I put the cover of her checkbook and a little New Testament Bible that had belonged to my father. I thought it appropriate to bury her with them.

After I sat down, many of her friends stood up and reminisced about the good times they had spent with her. A common theme running through all the tributes paid to my mother was that she had spunk. I couldn’t help but notice, and be amused, that nobody described her as being sweet. There was laughter and some bantering, and then it was over.

2

The Gathering

I kind of wanted to talk to you, Susan. No hurry, nothing really important. I just wanted to visit a little bit with you. I’ll talk at you another day. Bye.

* * *

The director ushered the people out of the parlor for the graveside service. He left our immediate family alone so we could have a final moment to say our goodbyes. We then went to a covered site where my mother’s body would be buried next to my father’s. We were on a hill in the cemetery reserved for veterans, honoring my father’s career of 20 years with the Army. It was a beautiful May afternoon, the warm breeze starting to slightly kick up. Luckily, it was before the Sacramento Valley’s stifling heat had settled in with all its force. My mother’s pastor stood and solemnly spoke something about her soul being in a peaceful place and then he said a prayer. I stood and looked aloofly down into the empty pit as they lowered the coffin into the grave.

Some of her friends invited us to the church to eat sandwiches and salads. When we got there, we sat down at a table reserved for family. We didn’t particularly like some of the people in this church and were only there out of an obligatory respect for my mother. The pastor’s wife came over to tell me how I reminded her of my mother and the regal way she presented herself, which I took as a compliment. My mother’s friends took turns stopping and talking to us as we nibbled our food. When we finished eating and were ready to leave, we could put this day behind us. I finally had closure.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we got into the car to go home. I needed time alone to grieve that she would no longer be in my life. The finality that I would never be able to see her or hear her voice again was heartbreaking.

Caring for her as she struggled with her memory and emotional distress had been exhausting. It had been a long and horrific nightmare dealing with my mother as she was claimed by Alzheimer’s. There was an ache in my stomach, and I knew that I needed to process my thoughts on all that had happened during this time.

II

HER STORY

I’m talking to a friend on the phone when call waiting interrupts.

Hold on a minute, I say to my friend.

Hello?

Susan? This is Mom.

Hi Mom, can I call you right back? I’m on the other line talking to a friend.

Oh, okay. Call me back. She hangs up.

Within a minute I’m interrupted again.

Hello?

Susan? This is Mom.

Mom, I’m still talking to my friend. I’ll call you right back.

I flip over to the line my friend is on.

That was my mom again.

Within a minute I’m interrupted again.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What has gotten into my mother! I say to my friend. Just a minute.

Susan? This is Mom.

Mom, why do you keep calling me? I’ll call you right back, I exasperatedly exclaim.

3

Growing Up on the Ranch

* * *

My mother grew up on a ranch in Cambridge, Kansas. I went there once with her when I was a young girl because she wanted to revisit the house she grew up in. Her parents had died years before in an automobile accident, and she hadn’t visited since her brother, taking advantage of the disarray following their sudden deaths, had seized the house and property.

As we neared the property, I could tell she was upset because her brother had let the house deteriorate. I stood in shock, staring at the old, dilapidated house that had once been her home. Obviously abandoned for years, the house seemed desolate amidst the surrounding serenity of honey-colored fields. The small house looked modest and unassuming, the wood it was built from was weathered, and beaten with years of neglect. The weeds stood tall and threatening near the doorway, as if to say, I dare you to come near. It was hard to imagine a loving, happy family ever living there.

When my mother’s memory was fading, she illustrated with her hands the size of the foundation stones they used, which, according to her, were 18 inches long and 8 inches high. In its early stages, Alzheimer’s affects short-term memory. Normally, however, as the disease progresses, long-term memory is also affected. It amazed me to think that at times when she couldn’t remember who I was, she could still remember this minute detail.

We walked up close to the house and stood outside for some time. I tried not to fidget, standing beside her as quietly as I could. I closed my eyes and felt the warm summer breeze gently swirling around us. A loud creaking noise startled me, and I realized my mother was struggling to open the door. We crept inside, with me slightly hesitating behind her. While our eyes adjusted to the dark, I crinkled my nose, immediately whiffing something old and musty. I couldn’t tell which room had been the living room or kitchen, but she knew. I saw the look of melancholy in her eyes, even though I didn’t yet fully understand the impact of what this house had meant to her. We stayed much longer than I was comfortable with, but I silently remained by her side. Something inside me knew this was an important moment for her.

After going through the entire house, we went back outside, and my mother suggested we take a walk. I don’t remember how long we walked or how far the property stretched; I was content to be out in the fresh air. My mother loved walking the property, as she called it. So together we reverently strolled around the entire perimeter of the estate. I thought I heard her speak, so faintly I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me or just talking to herself. I cocked my ear and held my breath so I could hear her more clearly.

In a soft voice I could barely hear, she said she was a water witch. She started describing how she would find the perfect Y-shaped twig, holding the long end so the Y pointed toward the ground. She would walk around until she could feel a vibration, which grew stronger as she approached a large quantity of underground water. She was proud that the neighbors used her, or people like her, to find the best location to dig their wells. Even though I was young, I was fascinated with this revelation and accepted what she told me without question. After walking the property, we got back into the car and sat until she finally started the car and drove away.

On the way back to meet my father and brother, my mother cheered up and told me some of her childhood memories. She revealed to me that she’d had a happy childhood and felt fortunate to have had such wonderful parents. As she fondly spoke about her parents, my mother had a melancholy look, and I listened with interest.

Later in life, I received an oral history from my mother that had been passed down through several generations, along with some written articles that I found in my mother’s personal files. Although my mother didn’t share all of it that day in the car, it feels right to include some of the additional information here because I can see how the extended family shaped who my mother, and then I, became.

My mother’s paternal grandfather, John Walter Hillier, was born in Somersetshire, England in 1847. He came to America at the age of 23, and settled in Rock Creek, Ashtabula County, Ohio. Two years later, her grandmother, Annie Jamima Davis who was born in Birmingham, England in 1845, came to America to join him.

Annie, affectionately known as Amos, stood 4 feet, 2 inches tall and weighed less than 100 pounds. She claimed to have been left at Queen Victoria’s door and raised by the queen. My mother insisted this was true even though I never found evidence of this. My mother also claimed that Amos might have been the illegitimate child of one of the queen’s children. As the story goes, Amos grew up as the queen’s personal lady-in-waiting, which entailed helping the queen with her wardrobe and singing for her entertainment. My mother’s grandfather John was supposedly the footman for Prince Albert.

Annie traveled