Sit with Me- Mike Cote Connects with Granddaughter While Remembering His Mother

Some requests you cannot refuse.

When my granddaughter, Isla, wanted me to watch “Bluey” with her at a recent family gathering, she patted the couch cushion next to her.

It was not an unusual request for my stepdaughter’s 3-year-old, whose favorite words are “play with me!”

Still, in that moment, I recalled a similar episode from just a few months before. My 85-year-old mother, using the same gesture, signaled me to join her on a front porch loveseat, where we sat in silence and read our books.

By then, my mom was speaking fewer words than my granddaughter, who has reached the age where they flow nonstop. My mom had a few teeth that needed to be pulled so speaking for her was painful.

She was also beginning to shut down. The Venice, Florida, home she shared with my stepdad was equipped with a hospital bed, a wheelchair and an oxygen tank that had been delivered by a hospice care provider. 

I watched my mom “graduate” from hospice care during my May visit, because
she was eating again. But only a few weeks later, the cycle began repeating itself. In August, she died in a nursing home.

Now, these separate memories will forever be joined as one. 

The family gathering where my granddaughter fell asleep leaning into my shoulder was organized by my wife, Jeannie, to commemorate the 20th anniversary of her father’s death. The house was brimming with his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Maurice Olivier, a man I never had the pleasure to meet, was a World War II veteran from Manchester who earned a Purple Heart. His family remembers him as a simple man with a childlike nature. 

My mom’s family will gather in Florida this month to celebrate her passing. While we will arrive from airports all over the country, all of us trace our lineage to New Hampshire.

Bernadette “Bernie” Cecile Warren was born in Manchester, as were her seven siblings. They were the children of a French-Canadian couple who raised them on the city’s West side, home for families who immigrated there to work in the city’s textile mills.

All but one of my mom’s siblings left New Hampshire as they pursued their career goals. My mom, who raised four children by herself for eight years until remarrying, lived in the Queen City until retirement, when she and my stepdad, Robert Warren, joined the steady parade of New Englanders trading harsh winters for endless summers.

I volunteered to do the eulogy, which is proving to be the toughest writing assignment of my life. The older of my two brothers told me he misses talking with our mom on the phone, but he noted that he misses the conversations from some years back, before age began to diminish her.

That point has stuck with me as I’ve tried to uncover fuzzy memories, especially ones from the years when our mom was being our mom, when she made sure my two brothers and our baby sister had clean clothes to wear to school, that we were doing our homework, that we had food in the cupboard and in the fridge.

My mom struggled with depression, but she was resilient during the years she was a single parent. I was probably too young to notice, but I don’t remember her being anything other than our champion.

Mostly, I remember the small gestures, like when she would walk into my bedroom unannounced and hand me a bowl of potato chips and pretzel sticks. 

And when, like, my 3-year-old granddaughter, she patted the seat next to her so we could share a moment together.