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Full Circle: My Mother Changed My Diapers. Now I’m Changing Hers
The eras of a long life that have brought a remarkable woman back to my beginning
Roger Kisby
“Help. Help.”
It’s 3 a.m. and my 99-year-old mother is calling for me. Physically, she is fine. Mentally, it’s as if her mind has been abducted by an alien. I check to see if her diaper is dry and stretch out beside her. I tell her she is safe in her bed and to go back to sleep.
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As her breathing shifts, my mind revisits the mom who raised me so many decades ago. Along with curly hair, stubby toes and a love of books, she gave me my positive, sometimes Pollyanna-ish view of the world. And that is what keeps me going.
I reflect on the cycles of her long life, the different eras that have taken her back to what is so similar to my beginning:
1950s: Donna Reed, June Cleaver and my Mom
Janie Emaus with her sister, Arlie, and their mother in the 1950s.
Courtesy: Janie Emaus
Mom ran our household, as did the moms on TV. She did the grocery shopping, cleaned the house, prepared the meals, all with a smile. The only difference was she did not wear a skirt and heels throughout the day. Every night when my father returned home from work, my mom handed him a martini, the Los Angeles Times and a piece of rye bread.
I’m not sure why the bread. He was our breadwinner, but I think it had more to do with love than money. It was a joyful time with few worries. I grew up imagining I would have the same life. And that my mom would always be there to guide my sister and me through any difficult times.
1960s: Peace, Love and Lobster
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I wasn’t an easy teenager. Not that I was overly rebellious, but my sister reminds me that I often went to dinner with rollers in my hair, an attitude and the presumption that my behavior should be rewarded with a lobster dinner.
And, of course, I knew more than my mom about everything from The Beatles to the Vietnam War. During those years she was mom, a constant in my life. She was the typist, my rock and my biggest fan. Because of that unconditional love, I took all my teenage angst out on her.
1970s: Heartbreak and Happiness
The early 1970s found me living in “Heartbreak Hotel.” To mend my shattered heart, my parents sent me to Europe. After 10 months abroad, I arrived home with hairy armpits and no clue what do to with the rest of my life. My mother assured me that I would find myself. When I did, it wasn’t what she expected. I found myself engaged to a wannabe rockstar.
Rather than destroy our mother-daughter relationship, my mother took her Rabbi’s advice and planned an elaborate wedding. To her credit, she did not say “I told you so” when six weeks later my betrothed left me for the singer in his band. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me as I sobbed and reminded me that everything happens for a reason.
1980s: Big Hair and Big Dreams
My mom adored my second husband, the man who made her a grandmother. With her advice, I learned how to survive the burps and joys of motherhood. She became our daughter’s playmate, giving me space and time on the weekends to work on my writing. She hosted holiday dinners from Passover to Hanukkah, enriching our lives with family traditions.
1990s: Salty, Sweet and Savory
My parents, now in their 70s, traveled in their RV, showing their grandchildren museums, amusement parks and campgrounds. During the summer, we had weekly barbecues at their house, where the grandchildren learned to swim and the secrets of perfect seasoning.
They also learned more than they wanted to know about sex. For some reason, my mother became the expert on doling out advice to her teenage grandchildren. Rain or shine, there was an abundance of laughter. And Grandma’s house became the place where legends were made.
2000s: Grandmotherly Guidance
In 2002, I became a grandmother myself, bringing me even closer to my mom, who was then 77. Having learned from the best, I threw my heart and soul into teaching my grandchildren what my mother had passed on to me.
Somewhere between the financial collapse and our first Black president, my father got ill. I spent afternoons with him giving my mom time to play mah -jongg and lead her book group. Many of their household decisions fell upon my shoulders. This was the beginning of our role reversal.
2010s: Going Downhill
My father passed away in 2012. At the time my mom was a vital, energetic 89-year-old woman. With her dog, Chipper, she moved into an independent retirement village. Leaving her standing in the lobby was another moment in reverse, reminiscent of the day she left me at my dorm, a scared 19-year-old wondering if I would eat dinner alone for the next three years.
This time my tears flowed openly. I began taking care of her finances and her weekly grocery shopping. After one of our Sunday dinners, she confessed that she didn’t like her so-called friends and wanted to move. My husband and I had space in our home. I had more than enough space in my heart.
2020s: COVID-19, Confusion and Coping
The pandemic put an end to my mother’s weekly window-shopping excursions, most of which took place at the grocery store. I didn’t see anything fun about looking at various slabs of meat, daily produce specials or athletes on cereal boxes. But to my mom it was an exciting outing.
Once masks were enforced, a rule she thought that I implemented, those expeditions came to a halt. As did much of her cognitive thinking. The first time she asked why my father didn’t come to visit, my heart folded inside out. At that moment I needed her advice more than ever. I closed my eyes and asked for strength for whatever trials lay ahead.
Now every evening, I bring my mother a martini, a slice of bread and listen to her read the Los Angeles Times out loud. I tell myself I’ll be ready when she goes to join my dad. But I know I won’t be. I’ll miss everything about these last few years and all the decades in her life before them.
But more importantly, I know she will be ready. And that is what matters.
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