Elvis, Guitars and Cadillacs – lunch with Mom, a J.P. True Story

Last week Nancy and I took my Mom out to lunch, a rarity since Nancy is usually working when I take Mom out.  My mother is 86 and she has the beginning of dementia, alzheimer’s, memory loss, or whatever you want to call it, the person she is today is not who she was five years ago.  The look on her face or the struggle look when I ask her something, she looks like she embarrass that she can’t remember.

This is a usual conversation we have once a week.  “I just can’t remember Son,” she will say.  “I can’t remember anything.”

To lift her spirits, I will tell her, “Lets test your memory, and see what you do remember.”

“Okay, but I’m telling you I can’t remember anything.”

“Well if you don’t that’s okay.  But let’s try anyway.  I’m going to ask you three questions.  Just do your best.”

“Okay.”

“Who was Elvis Presley?”

“Oh!” her eyes opened wide.  “He was a rock and roll singer.  He’d sing those songs and shake his hips.  And he made a bunch of movies.”

“That’s right,” I said.  “Next question.  Who do you know that like The Beatles.”

“My son John Paul.”

“Right,” I smiled.  “One more question.  Who is your favorite guitar player?”

She smiles and says, “My son John Paul.”

I reach out for her hand and held it in my mine.

“There’s nothing wrong with your memory Mom.  You know all the important stuff.”

She squeezes my hand and smiles.

So were at lunch, Nancy is seated across from me, Mom is next to me.  I lean toward Mom and whisper, “Tell Nancy that Elvis is the King of Rock and Roll.”

Mom looks across the table at Nancy and says, “Elvis is the King of Rock and Roll.”

Nancy looks at me, I just shrug my shoulders and give a nod as if to say, “I don’t know what brought that on.”

Nancy then looks at Mom and says, “The King is Dead, I think Rock and Roll should have a new King.”

Mom looks at me as if she doesn’t know how to respond when I whisper to her, “Tell her that Elvis will always be the King.”

“Elvis wills always be the King.”

Nancy looks at me and gives me the spouse eye roll.

As lunch winds down, I lean toward Mom again and whisper, “Ask Nancy how often she thinks about guitars and Cadillacs.

“I’m not going to ask her that,” she retorts to me.

“Go ahead,” I encourage.

“No I’m not going to ask her that.”

“What does he want you to do Mary Ann?” Nancy asked.

“He wants me to ask you how often you think about guitars and Cadillacs.”

Nancy looks at me, gives me the spouse eye roll again, smiles and says, “Not as often as your Son does.”

 

The End