Ebony and Ivory

I have a memory of my mom in a long red dress. She walks (with applause) to the front of the stage, takes a bow, and walks back to the piano. The piano is black and shiny - a Steinway Grand. She sits on the bench, composes herself, hands in her lap and then up above the keys. A pause. And then....

Oh, if you could have witnessed my mom at the piano. She was a Master. A Poet. A Genius. A Craftswoman. A Magician.

I arrived today to stay with my folks for two weeks. My mom is definitely moving into the next stage of this horrible disease. She does and doesn't know who I am. She seems to like Becky, but she does not agree that I am her daughter. Not today. She thinks that John is a very very nice man - her favorite person - but she doesn't quite believe that he is her husband of almost 61 years. I could write more details about this day, but they are not happy. They are full of frustration and pain and anger and fear. They are full of the reality of a disease of the brain.

My dad said to me tonight something like this... "Nancy's entire life was music. She was driven by it, it was intellectual and spiritual. It was the moving force in her life and this disease destroyed that almost overnight."

This disease destroyed that overnight. This disease destroyed that overnight.

I don't know how to talk to people about my mom's illness. I cannot expect anyone to understand. You would have to have known my mom to understand the magnitude of this disease. And how in the world can I explain to you about my mom? How can I tell you that she was a person whose entire breath - from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep - was made of music?  How can I tell you (and make you understand) that everything that she knew and loved was contained within the 88 keys of the keyboard? And - yes - my father and brother and I and all of her extended family were part of those 88 keys. That her life was made of music from the moment she was born? How can you possibly understand that this disease destroyed that overnight?

My mom can barely recognize the black and white. The ebony and ivory. She can't distinguish the faces she sees. She hears rumbling, but she can't hear music. She can't identify the notes. She can't recognize the songs. She can't feel the keys.

So, I write tonight with great sorrow. The world is full of it now - and this is ours. When I imagine a life without music, I simply cannot breathe.  And this is the life my mom is living now. 

But then I also remember that red dress. I remember my mom walking to the piano. I remember her sitting on the bench, composing herself, hands perched above the keys. I remember the silence before the sound. And I remember the music. And I am so thankful. I am so thankful to my mom (and my dad) for giving me this love of music.  This love of magic provided by fingers on keys. This love of song through voice and ear and breath.

I hate this disease. I really truly hate it. It's a monster. It's a destroyer. So, with my mom I feel anger tonight. I feel frustration and pain and fear. With her, I want to scream.

But - tomorrow I will hope for something else. I will hum and I will sing and I will hold my mom's hand. I will stroke those fingers that brought so much passion and joy into this world. I will dust her Steinway and give it a loving pat. I know it misses her. I miss her too.

https://soundcloud.com/becky-nelson-linafelt/track-01