On Monday, Grey Gardens (aka: the home I share with my mother) was blessed with mobility -- for Mom. The chair/stair lift was installed, and it's so much fun I may sell tickets. It's at least as cool, and less dangerous, than the Disneyland Monorail. Two separate lifts for two separate spiral staircases, requiring custom builds and engineering and enormous stacks of money. But Mom loves her master suite on the top floor, sunwashed and breezy, so this allows her to stay there. If anyone ever needs a stair lift or other disability tools around the house in Southern California, I can recommend these guys, a small local company with integrity and heart.
Unfortunately, for the last week, Mom still can't get downstairs (despite chair lift) with O2 because ... well, it's a long story and I'm working on fixing it. But she's been increasingly limited and inactive for longer than that. Things she used to do for herself, defiantly, jealously preserved as her turf, have been slipping.
I had a moment of shock on Monday when she appeared in front of the workmen for the lift in a stained housedress. My mother wasn't ever a shopaholic (in fact the reverse) but always looked her best, justly proud of her appearance, the elegance of her surprisingly small (but perfect) wardrobe. In the last few years, the selection has shifted to comfort wear, flowy house dresses and the like, but still chic. It turns out she hasn't done laundry (or asked for help) for about a month. She always insisted on doing her own, pride, consideration for the ick factor, stubborn self-reliance, I don't know. Every month or so for the last few years, I'd ask to do it, she'd refuse.
So this morning, I just packed it all up, toted it downstairs and did it without asking permission. Looking at it as I loaded the machine I noticed that everything she wears is ... well, shabby and worn. Worthy of throwing out, not washing. She hates clothes shopping and hasn't been able to do it even if she wanted to for over a year. She's been making do with rags and I never thought to step in.
I left one load in washer and one in dryer, and on my round of errands today, stopped by the mall and bought her a new wardrobe. Really. New underwear (lots), 2 new nightgowns, 2 new house dresses, 4 new blouses and 2 pair of trousers. All on sale, this isn't a manic episode, it was well made but reasonably priced. And it only took about half an hour, one stop. (OK, it was JC Penney's.)
I had a blast, thinking of what colors she likes, making matches, just pulling stuff off racks in her size and not overthinking. I mean, it was really fun, a wonderful channel for my love for her, my impeccable beautiful mother, to help her look good (which helps her feel good). Unlike a lot of mother-daughter relationships, I would not have PRESUMED to shop for her before. Every clothes gift I've ever given her years ago (before I swore Never Again) remained unworn. She had some inscrutable process of discernment of what suited her and what didn't. This time I let go of that and thought, "Fuck it, she has no choice but me, and it's all returnable."
When I got back, Mom was so happy she actually cried. She insisted on trying on two or three things and paraded grandly (well, she stood up) before she ran out of air, loved them all. She said, "You love me more than I love myself." Wow. I know depression and I hear it. Poor baby. I'm throwing out all the old sad clothes from the laundry.
Devoted Reader, when speaking of my mother, you only hear the bitching and ranting. This is the stuff that makes it worthwhile, and I need to remember that.
PS: If you're a Grey Garden fanatic, and recognize the above brooch from Little Edie's favorite accessory to her revolutionary costume for every single today, you too can have that claustrophobic yet chic je ne sai quois for yourself, http://www.thegreygardensbrooch.com./
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