Central characters

Mom, elderly, experiencing dementia, approaching the end of life, is generally in a wheelchair or hospital bed throughout. 

Greg, her son, the narrator, speaks directly about his experiences with Mom (“narrating”), and sometimes becomes an active part of the vignettes he’s describing (“in scene”).  

Other characters

Mary, who is Greg’s life partner, and helps care for Mom

John, the administrator of Mom’s assisted living facility

Young woman in restaurant, who rushes over to the table

A priest who visits the house to give Mom the Last Rites

A hospice nurse, who visits the house and also speaks by phone

Challenges in staging

The story flips from vignette to vignette.  Softening lights will help with these transitions.

Greg flips back and forth between being narrator and stepping into the action.   

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THE LAST WORD

GREG

(narrating)

Mom said . . .the dead . . . visit.
After a series of infarcts, Mom came to believe her dead sister Madeleine and their dead father Frank were coming to visit; had already come and gone; or disappointed her by not showing up.

A little background: when Mom was four and Madeline was six, their daddy, Frank, flew the coop.  For the next seven years, the girls shuttled from one foster family to another while their poor mother, Beatrice, toiled ungodly hours trying to make ends meet.

On Dad’s final Christmas (my Dad’s)—a year after Mom’s delusions began—I take Mom aside:

(in scene)

About Frank and Madeleine, are they still paying you visits? 

MOM

(in wheelchair)

They really come all the time.  Sometimes, I can’t get Madeleine to leave, she talks so damn much.  But we can’t let Dad know.  He can’t handle it.

GREG

(narrating)

When Dad died, I inherited Mom.  Madeleine and Frank came along for the ride. 

(beat)

We get Mom off most of her meds and she returns to her charming self.  Her needs require placing her in assisted living. They say, “We’ll take her,” but then, the unit manager says,

JOHN

Hold your horses…

GREG

(narrating)

This man is afraid mom’s harmless delusions might pose a threat to public safety.  

(Greg in scene, joins Mary and John, and Mom in wheelchair)

JOHN

So . . . can you tell me about these visits from Madeleine and Frank?

MOM

Are you conniving to charge me for a triple?

JOHN

(dumbfounded)

MOM

(lowering her voice, as if speaking with a child)

They’re just my imaginary friends.  Didn’t you ever have one?  

JOHN

Yes, but mine left when I was five.

MOM

Did you miss him when he left?

JOHN

Actually, I still think about him sometimes.

MOM

(leaning forward, takes John’s hands in hers)

My dear, you have something to look forward to.  He’ll come back someday. 

JOHN

(laughing, wipes away a tear, calls loudly to get staff member’s attention)

Put her in the big single at the end of the hall. . . . Move that sofa bed in there too.

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

On her final Mother’s Day, we take Mom out to brunch. 

MOM

(in wheelchair, sipping coffee, trying to sit up straight)

GREG AND MARY

(sipping coffee, inaudibly talking with Mom)

YOUNG WOMAN

 (rushes over, asks excitedly)

I just have to ask, are you the actress Maureen O’Sullivan?

MOM 

(throwing back head, batting eyelashes) 

How ever did you recognize me?   

YOUNG WOMAN 

(even more excited)

The high cheekbones. They’re a dead giveaway.

MOM 

(trying to look regal now) 

I hope they’re a living giveaway.  Here, bend down, let me give you a little hug.

YOUNG WOMAN

(bending down toward Mom)

MOM

(places her hand on Young Woman’s upper back, hugs her)

Thanks for seeing me. You made my day.

MOM

(after Young Woman departs)

I hope I gave her a thrill.  

GREG

(narrating)

The real actress Maureen O’Sullivan, who played Jane to Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan, died three years earlier.  

(beat)

One time, Mom tells me she’s waiting to be picked up and taken to Madeleine’s birthday party. 

MOM

(in wheelchair)

Is mother at your house?

GREG

(in scene)

Your mother or my mother?

MOM

Our mother.

GREG

But you’re my mother.

MOM

So is Beatrice.

GREG

(speechless)

MOM

Have you heard anything about Poppa passing from this earth?

GREG

Now who do you mean by Poppa?

MOM

Dad.

GREG

Your Dad or my Dad?

MOM

Our Dad. One mother, one father.

GREG

Who are you to me?

MOM

I’m your sister.

GREG

(narrating)

I spend the next hour proving to Mom one of the few things she’d known with certainty all my life, that she’s my mother.

(in scene)

Are you still going to Madeleine’s birthday party?

MOM

No, she came here instead.  A friend drove her.

GREG

Did Madeleine talk much?

MOM

She always does, but I never listen to her. 

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

Another day, I ask Mom

(in scene)

How long do you think it will take your father Frank to get to heaven?

MOM

(in wheelchair)

A long time, considering all the things he did and, worse, the ones he should’ve done but didn’t.  That’s why he still roams the earth.

GREG

How long do you think it will take my Dad?

MOM

Oh, he’s there now.  Your father never did one thing wrong. . . Damn it!

GREG

How about you?

MOM

I’ll get there before my father, but not by much.

GREG

How come?

MOM

(hesitant, delays responding)

Sam.

GREG

Did you and Sam. . . . ever. . . .you know.

MOM

Oh, I’d never do that.  But the thought’s as bad as the deed.

GREG

No it’s not!

MOM

Oh yes, I can assure you, it is.

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

Mom stays fairly healthy for three years until a failed treatment for a UTI results in sepsis. She refuses a ventilator and rapid decline seems inevitable. So they flood her with steroids.

GREG and MARY

(in scene, entering Mom’s hospital room)

MOM

(lying in hospital bed, looks alert after her visitors enter)

I died, but a lady dressed in blue with the sweetest face said hi to me, gave me a little wave, and sent me back.

GREG

(narrating)

The next day, Mom is riding high.

MARY

(standing by Mom)

MOM

(sitting up on edge of bed wearing a nightie, with feet dangling)

Get me my red shoes and hail us a cab. We’re going out on the town. 

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

At the nursing home, Mom becomes more motivated than ever to be ready for Dad’s coming home from his long trip.

MOM

(in wheelchair)

Did Dad tell you what train he’s coming in on?

GREG

(in scene)

No, he didn’t, and that’s not like him.

MOM

Maybe he wants to surprise me.

(beat)

You know, I think I saw my parents walking down the hallway today arm in arm.  Do you think they might finally get back together?

GREG

(narrating)

Hope bounds eternal!

(beat)

MARY 

(helps Mom into hospital bed)

GREG

(narrating)

But another UTI, undiagnosed, results in sepsis, undiagnosed, which cascades into a massive heart attack.  They say Mom won’t last the weekend.  We bring her home.  Snowmageddon follows.  And then the earth stands still.  

(beat)

Day 4: I plead with a priest to trudge through the snow to give mom the Last Rites.

(Mom in hospital bed here and to end)

(Greg and Mary near Mom’s bedside, making room for priest)

(Priest enters, walks to Mom’s bedside, begins to pray)

(Mom is resting on her side with her back to the priest)

(As the priest prays, Mom slowly begins to turn)

(Mom pushes the priest’s hands away without looking at him)

(She finally looks at him.)

MOM

(smiling, almost impishly)

And bibbidi-bobbidi-boo to you too.

(priest takes Mom’s hand, looks suitably amused, finishes praying, leaves)

GREG

Later, a hospice nurse reaches our door. We meet to arrive at a plan of action . . . . or inaction.  

(Greg joins Hospice Nurse, Mary, and Mom in hospital bed)

HOSPICE NURSE

(leans toward Greg, whispering)
Is she aware of what we’re saying?

MOM

(leans toward Mary, whispers loudly)

Why doesn’t he just ask me? Isn’t she aware I’m sitting right here? And why is she whispering?

GREG

(narrating)

Day eight: black starlings cry out, “You’re disposing of Mom because you’re out of steam.” The doctor says, “No, steel your wills. See her through hospice.” But the starlings will not relent: “You’re killing Mom.”

(beat)

GREG

(crosses and sits in chair beside Mom’s bed, narrating)

I stay up with Mom late and pass the baton to Mary.  

MARY

(also narrating)

We attend to Mom’s every word and want. 

(in scene, speaking to Mom)

“What’s on your mind?” 

MOM

(about now begins slowly cramping into fetal position)

My pain.

MARY

“How does your leg feel?” 

MOM

I don’t know.  It just does. 

(beat)

I don’t even know what “a hay” is!

GREG

(narrating)

No doubt preceded by the thought

MOM

I don’t give a hay.

GREG

(narrating)

Day 15: Late. It’s monstrously difficult to watch someone you love die of congestive heart failure.  Mom is smothering. Her eyes say, “I’m not ready to go yet.” 

MARY

(sits Mom half up, administers meds orally)

Mary gives Mom meds to clear her lungs.  I call hospice and say, “We want to give her morphine to help her breathe.”   

HOSPICE NURSE

(by phone, voice only)

 “Can’t you just let her go?” 

GREG

(narrating)

And I say, “No!”

MARY

(supports Mom sitting up, administers morphine)

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

Breathing normalizes.

(beat)

(by now Mom’s legs have fully cramped into the fetal position)

MOM

(Using gestures, asks Mary to straighten her legs) 

MARY

(silently massaging and gradually straightening Mom’s legs)

GREG

(narrating)

At 3 a.m., I get myself a bowl of cereal.  

MOM

(looks at Greg and asks “What’re you eating?” with her eyes)

GREG

(in scene, understanding Mom’s silent question, eating with a spoon)

Oh, I’m putting a down payment on breakfast. 

MOM

(perks up instantly)

Is the coffee on?

(beat)

But the next night, Mom seems anxious, keeps changing her position.  Then, long past midnight.   

MOM

(holds Greg’s hand, then abruptly slaps it away in fit of death anxiety)

I . . .  am finished.

GREG

(narrating)

That is, the “I” . . . I am accustomed ed to being, the I I’ve always said was me . . . is done.

(beat)

GREG

(narrating)

In the morning, Mom gestures that she’s hungry. So Mary feeds her.

MARY

(gives Mom nutritional supplement to suck through a straw from a can)

You’re a baby bird. 

MOM

(stops sucking on the straw, smiles, makes fish face)

GREG

(narrating)

Soon after, Mom sinks into a deep silence for the rest of the day.

(beat)

GREG AND MARY

(come and go, pass each other/touch briefly as hours pass)

MOM

(remains in deep silence)

GREG

(in scene, sits bedside and runs fingers over Mom’s face, neck, arms)

I don’t know where you are.  I know you need to be deep inside yourself. I just want you to know, we’re all here, and we all love you.

(He expects no response.  Mom’s eyes shoot open as if she’s returned again from the dead.  She looks straight into Greg.)

MOM

I’m here.  I love you.

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Jim Ross jumped into creative pursuits seven years ago after a rewarding research career. He’s since published poetry, fiction, nonfiction, photography and hybrid in 175 journals on five continents, including Columbia Journal, Hippocampus, Ilanot, Kestrel, Newfound, Sweet, The Atlantic, and Typehouse. He and his family split time between city and mountains.