Memoirs
The Doggie in the Window
I remember her sweet caramel intonations as Patti Page's hit "The Doggie in the Window" played over the radio in our upstairs apartment on Grand Street in Lowell. It went to No. 1 on the popular charts and was one of my mother's favorite songs. She was in her early-twenties then and I was barely three. Of course, I loved the tune myself, the kaleidoscope of sound, the whimsical cadence, the magical imagery dancing in my head as it played.
By the mid-fifties, there were other popular songs worth mention, like "Mr. Sandman" by the Chordettes, "Sincerely" by the McGuire Sisters, "Sixteen Tons" by Tennessee Ernie Ford, "Only You" by the Platters, and "Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley and the Comets. We had a radio in the kitchen, and it was always on.
But "Doggie" holds that special place in my heart reserved for the first song of memory. I've thought about the song at various points in my life, and the entire chorus is indelible in my memory beginning with that inquisitive opening lyric, "How much is that doggie in the window (arf arf)?"
In the spring of 2010, I drove my then 80-year-old mother to her home in Dracut, Mass. after a brief rehab stay at a nursing facility in Andover. She was fifteen years a widow and had developed a heart condition that led to her onset of dementia. I had been her caregiver and healthcare proxy for the last few years, and she was stable now, but she still needed fulltime care. I realized this in October 2007 and made a conscious decision to give her my undivided attention without question or deliberation. My father's last request to me was to "take care of your mother." And when her time of need arrived, my commitment to her was unconditional. And, as her son, it was my honor to walk with her and accompany her on her final journey.
As hard as it was for my mother to give up her independence, the time interval between October 2007 and August 2010—when she passed away—proved to be the most difficult of my own life. During that period, the spectrum of my emotions ranged from profound joy to deep sadness. Sometimes these feelings trickled like a babbling brook, sometimes they flowed like a raging river, and sometimes the sheer emotional force was overwhelming like a tidal wave.
But leaving the nursing facility to take her home was a moment of boundless joy for both of us. I'll never forget the look of pure elation on her face as we checked out. "We did it!" I said as we walked out the door. "We did it!" she repeated in a childlike voice that she often invoked when she was happy or contented.
No longer was her hair tightly permed and faux blonde with golden highlights, the way she normally had her hair done when she visited her hairdresser up on Broadway near Dracut center—a quick jaunt in her Toyota Corolla from her home on Amesbury Street. Now her hair was wild and free and naturally gray. It was a good look for her.
As we drove into the driveway to her home in Dracut, Patti Page's sweet voice came on the radio. It was completely out of the blue. I don't remember the station. I don't even remember hearing the song being played over the air waves since I was a toddler on Grand Street. But there it was, that sweet chorus:
"How much is that doggie in the window (arf arf)?
The one with the waggly tail.
How much is that doggie in the window (arf arf)?
I do hope that doggie's for sale."
I remember just sitting there in the car in the driveway with the windows rolled down as she gazed about the property. She took a deep breath as she listened to the rustling trees and bushes. The warm air of spring surrounded us as the sweet scent of incoming grass and tree buds permeated our senses. It was a magical moment. She hadn't been home for close to a year, ostensibly held hostage by the business side of the healthcare industry and shunned by friends and members of her own family who came to see her as strange and old … a hopeless case.
Now she was free and at home. And it seemed fitting that this specific song would come on the radio at this exact time. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, spring was advancing into summer … and this was home.
When the song ended, I asked, "Do you remember that song, Ma?"
"Yes … I do," she said. Her words and expression were immediate. The connection and her ability to be present soothed my own beleaguered heart and soul.
We sat there for several minutes as she surveyed her yard. Then I helped her from the car, and she held my arm as we crossed the driveway and climbed the three concrete steps to the side door of her home. She was still very weak from a brutal bout of Clostridium Difficile (C. Diff), a malady she contracted at the nursing home during an epidemic that afflicted both residents and nurses alike.
The next month or so of physical recovery was difficult. A visiting nurse came by and gave me some instruction on how to deal with the C. Diff.
But at this moment—as we painstakingly climbed those steps—we savored the cherished memory of Patti Page's popular song and the innocence of the bygone era it signified in our collective consciousness. And in that moment, the dark clouds that had loomed over her confinement began to lift and dissipate.
As soon as we were inside, we sat at the kitchen table so she could rest. She took her regular position by the window.
"Is my father still alive?" she asked.
As her dementia progressed, my mother would often ask about the whereabouts of her mother and father, who passed away decades ago and her husband who died in 1995. And each time she inquired about those with whom she maintained the closest of relationships, I would engage her in stories about her loved ones and years gone by.