The Rainbow Comes and Goes
I have Anderson Cooper to thank for inspiring an idea which has already led to one of the greatest gifts I could ever have. As soon as I began reading the book he wrote with his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, The Rainbow Comes and Goes, I knew that I was about to embark on one of the most meaningful journeys of my life—a conversation with my mother unlike any I had ever had before.
At forty-three years old, my eighty-one-year-old mother is still one of my best friends—always has been and always will be. She has been there for me through every triumph and every tribulation I’ve ever had to face. She’s comforted me, inspired me, challenged me, loved me, laughed with me, wiped away my tears, and has taught me some of the most valuable lessons anyone could ever learn. She’s always been there to listen to me and guide me. She’s been an excellent role model for me and has shown me how to handle all of life’s situations with grace, kindness, patience, gratitude, and a whole lot of fun. She is an amazing woman and I thank God I call her “Mom.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve saved every piece of correspondence from my mother possible—every card and hand-written note she’s ever given me. I printed out and saved every email she wrote me when I was away at college one summer. I keep voicemails and treasure every picture and video that I have of my mom. I don’t want to ever forget anything about this amazing woman that has impacted my life so greatly.
Unfortunately, in the past few years, my mother has had some difficulty with her memory. As she’s gotten older, she’s experienced age-related forgetfulness and the beginning of dementia. I can hardly say those words aloud or write them in a sentence without tearing up about this awful reality. This woman who has lived such a beautiful life and who has raised a daughter who thinks the world of her has difficulty remembering many of her experiences and the memories she’s made. She’s had a hard time recalling trivial things that she does each day or even those that she did just moments earlier. Names and details often escape her, but it’s not for lack of trying. She keeps photo albums at her fingertips so that she can try to jog her own memory as often as she pleases. She’s aware that she forgets things and I know she doesn’t want to. But as with everything else she’s ever done, she embraces her difficulties with a smile, a good sense of humor, and lighthearted comments. She continues to be the epitome of what living a blessed and beautiful life should be.
I do my best to fill in the missing pieces of things that puzzle her. She writes herself little notes in shorthand—a skill she has been using ever since her days of being a paralegal secretary—and leaves them all around the house. She jots notes on calendars and notepads and keeps some in her pockets so they’re easily accessible. She doesn’t want to forget important things people have said or things she did that day. She writes questions on scrap pieces of paper or napkins—whatever is available for her to write on as soon as the thought or question pops into her mind. She doesn’t want to forget to tell me something or ask me a question that she suddenly thinks of—eager to write an answer as soon as it’s given. If she asks the same question three or four times, I’ll gladly give her the same answer three or four times. I never bring attention to her forgetfulness and don’t ever want her to feel embarrassed that she can’t remember something. If only she’d recall where she puts her notes sometimes, things would be a little easier for her. I think about her feelings all the time. I hope she’s never sad, lonely, worried, or angry about what has happened to her. She doesn’t seem to be, but I can’t help but feel those emotions about what has happened to my best friend.
A couple of years ago, I gave my mom a book that I had purchased for her. On each page was a question she could answer about her life and her memories. When it becomes mine, it will be a wonderful keepsake, a remembrance of my mom’s legacy. I haven’t read it yet, but I know she enjoyed writing down everything she was able to recall. Occasionally, I’d hear her chuckling to herself out loud and find her writing in her book, lost in the memory of whichever question she was answering at the time. From time to time, I see her rereading her own answers to the questions, sometimes even adding to them. I know a treasure is hidden for me within the pages of that book and one day I’ll be able to share in the joy of those memories.
I didn’t get past the introduction written by Anderson Cooper when the idea came to me—yet another way to connect with my mother and preserve more memories. Anderson wrote, “I hope what follows will encourage you to think about your own relationships and perhaps help you start a new kind of conversation with someone you love. After all, if not now, when?" My answer was simple, “Now. Immediately.”
My elderly parents live in the upstairs apartment of a house I share with my wife. We take care of the two people who took care of me my entire life. After reading Anderson’s introduction, I rushed upstairs with an assortment of empty journals and laid them out for my mother to see. I shared with her how I had just started reading this book by Anderson Cooper and Gloria Vanderbilt and how it had given me a great idea. I reminded her how much I enjoy journal writing and told her that I always keep spare journals on hand, just in case. After explaining the concept, I asked my mother if she’d participate in a letter-writing journal between mother and daughter with me. She said, “Why don’t you start by writing me a letter and let’s see if I reply." She giggled aloud, amused by what we both knew to be true—she’d gladly participate and looked forward to this journey. She picked out her favorite journal and said, “Just don’t expect me to be able to write on every line,” referring to her arthritic right hand. Rheumatoid arthritis has been another enemy of hers in recent years, completely closing three of her fingers, making everyday tasks and writing that much more difficult. Always the trooper though, she was graciously willing to give this mother-daughter project her best shot.
I excitedly rushed downstairs and wrote my first letter to my mom. I completed it in no time at all and when I was done, I left the book on her kitchen table and told her to read the letter I wrote her whenever she got a chance. A little while later, I went back upstairs and found the book open to the page where my first letter ended and hers began. Just as I had hoped, she began writing back almost instantly. However, I had caught her in the middle of a quick dance break. She was in the living room singing and dancing to, “This Guys’ in Love With You,” by B.J. Thomas. The music was playing a bit on the loud side, but not so much for my mom. Her hearing isn’t quite what it used to be either. It didn’t bother me at all and my dog and I happily joined her dance party. Though she couldn’t recall the name of the song, she knew almost every word. Hearing her sing was music to my ears. When the next song played, we continued to dance and sing together. In the middle of the song, she happily declared, “Sonny and Cher,” as if answering a question she asked herself. We were laughing, spinning, and swaying to, “I Got You Babe,” and I thanked God for the beautiful memory I knew we were creating. Once our impromptu dance party was over, my mom went right back to her kitchen table to continue her letter.
Later that evening, I went to check in and say good night to my parents as I always do before going to bed. My mom presented me with a handmade gift that she had worked on that day. I won’t get into detail about what it was, just know that it was truly personal and meaningful. It was clear to me that she took what I had said to her in my first letter to heart and my message sparked an idea for her to create this beautiful keepsake for me. Thoughtful, considerate, and clever—that’s my mom.
In addition to some of the other struggles and changes my mom has had to endure, her verbal communication skills are not what they once were. All my life, my mom told me stories about her own childhood, my grandparents whom I never had the pleasure of knowing, my mother’s life as a single woman, tales of when she met my father, and stories about my brother and I when we were young. She was always a great storyteller, but in the past few years, she’s become much less articulate. I do my best to engage her in conversation and ask open-ended questions, constantly craving another detailed story from her memory. It saddens me that we do not have that same verbal communication that we once did, but I think keeping this ongoing written communication between us will help tremendously. It might take my mom a little longer to respond to my letters, but each one of hers is worth the wait. Our conversations with each other are now etched in the pages of a book, not just in our memories, and for this, I am truly grateful and humbled. My mom’s handwriting has changed somewhat over the years—it’s a tad more unsteady than it was before she had arthritis—but it’s still beautiful. In fact, there is nothing more beautiful than being able to read my mom’s innermost thoughts in her very own handwriting—written exclusively for me. I treasure every word, whether it be a piece of advice, insight into how she feels about something, a witty comment or joke, or a story from her walk down memory lane. Everything she writes on those pages is precious and written out of love between a mother and her child.
I wish that Anderson Cooper knew how great of an impact his project had on me. The correspondence he and his mother shared with one another prompted me to embark on another wonderful journey through time with my own—and what is written will never be forgotten.