“We need to have a party for your mom.”
This suggestion came from a former ski racing teammate who had moved to Vermont and now lived close to me. She was among the many “kids” now grown and with kids of their own, who had been taken in by Nina in our ski racing days. Our house had been the closest mom-staffed home to Dr Steadman, the magical US Ski Team orthopedic surgeon. Knee injuries being an occupational hazard of ski racing, our house became known as “Hotel California” and Nina as a an institutional level surrogate mom.
This friend mentioned the idea of a party to another friend and former teammate, and together they pressed the issue. It was a year or so after Mom had been diagnosed—well into the progression of the disease—though she could still socialize and recognize faces, if not names.
To us, her own kids, it didn’t seem like there was anything to celebrate. All we saw was her decline. What was the point of creating an opportunity to recount stories she probably would not remember? Plus, it felt akin to a farewell party, like calling attention to this bummer of a disease and its endgame?
Luckily, these two friends were relentless. They wanted to make sure they had the chance to show Nina the love she’d shown them, and sooner rather than later. When I thought about it, Nina’s solution to just about anything had always been to have a gathering. Why not for this too? God knows Buck always appreciated a gathering of ski racers. Thus, the “Nina Appreciation Party” was born.
NINA AND HER STRAYS
Once the siblings were on board, we set a date in the spring, when the weather would be good and the madness of the ski season was over, and spread the word. The idea was to keep the gathering to a manageable size, with people who had at some point been regulars in our living room— familiar faces that would bring a smile to Nina’s face. It was a wide net.
Nina loved strays and she got plenty at “Hotel California.” When I say strays, I do not mean they were homeless or unclaimed. Most had close families of their own, but were literally in unknown territory—far from home while navigating uncharted physical and emotional journeys. They needed a safe place to land—the solid support of our high-capacity built-in living room couch, and the animated conversation around the giant peanut jar in Nina’s kitchen. These were teammates and ski racers who came to rehab after surgery, but also neighbors, classmates, roommates, boyfriends or girlfriends. They would gravitate to Nina’s care, which was welcoming but never overbearing. She performed her surrogate mom role so subtly that the actual moms never even knew to be jealous.
I probably owe a lot of my friendships to the fact that these strays were using me as a way to get to my mom. I knew better than to question the process. Some strays were alpha girls who seemed to have more of everything I desperately wanted—looks, talent, boyfriends. Our friendships started with the training wheels provided by their bond with Nina, but soon rolled independently. These formerly intimidating it-girls turned into some of my closest friends.
Nina’s role continued throughout adulthood. When my teammates visited Hotel California with their own kids, she welcomed them like her own grandchildren; and when my female teammates started dating each other—as many of them did in mid-life—she never raised an eyebrow. For someone in her generation this was not always the norm. While raising my own family on the other side of the country, I was sometimes jealous of those close connections and relationships that now existed entirely independent of me; sometimes I wondered why Nina had to be so welcoming, so inviting. Did everyone really deserve Nina’s bottomless well of cheer, and the red-carpet treatment at Hotel California? Had I ever verbalized that, I know what her answer would have been: “Absolutely!”
TURNING OUT IN FORCE
So far, the Alzheimer’s journey had been punctuated by low points and hard realities; but, crisis can also bring out the best in people. This generation of friends from my youth and beyond, who had long ago moved on to their own lives, remembered Nina’s kindness. When the opportunity came to gather and thank her for the safe haven she had always provided, they showed up with their A-games.
One friend drove from Idaho, another flew from Salt Lake and another from Seattle. Ironically, the prime instigator could not make it at the last minute, but designed and sent hats and t-shirts for the occasion. We printed up coffee mugs with a Hotel California logo in a nod to Nina’s hospitality. In keeping with her style, we were wildly unprepared as hosts, but also unconcerned. Everybody brought a dish (and rallied in so many ways), and one friend made an elaborate mountain-shaped cake out of rice krispy treats, complete with a tram and skiers. Everyone wore a name-tag with first names written in large print, and we timed the party early enough in the day to capture her peak energy, before the dreaded “sundowning.”
My siblings and I had wondered if this party was already too late, and if it would call attention to mom’s illness in a way that made her uncomfortable. At first, Nina seemed confused by the fuss, and couldn’t quite accept that people had shown up just for her. But soon enough she sat back and reveled in seeing so many of the grown-up kids, and their own kids, many of whom she had also adopted along the way. She soaked in the love like the afternoon sun, chatting with people who sat next to her, one-on-one in the living room.
An unanticipated bonus was the positive affect on Buck. He, too, got the chance to enjoy a lively group and also have quieter conversations with people he knew and loved but didn’t see regularly. We didn’t know it at the time, but that party would be the last gathering of friends and family until Buck’s memorial service, less than a year later. I’ll always be grateful for the friends who thought ahead, and gave us that chance.
PAYING IT FORWARD
It was only later, when Nina was no longer concierge at Hotel California, greeting me at the door, that I understood what she had been for these quasi-orphans—what it meant to have a home where they could always show up and not only be welcome but feel special. Her unconditional kindness had been an anchor when life felt unmoored.
When I started building my own family, I instinctively wanted to be the place where kids could find a safe haven despite geographic or emotional distance to their own home. I never pulled it off with the patience and pure heart that Nina brought, but I tried, and made boat-loads of cookies and quesadillas in the process. The Nina Appreciation Party reminded me that it’s always the right time to have a party and it’s never too late to say “thank you” to the people who have made a difference in your life.
Now, a question for you: How do you celebrate people who have made a difference in your life? Gatherings? Thank you notes? Visits? Phone calls? Cookies? Hit that comment button and let me know. I’d love to hear!
Up Next: We’re taking a closer look at the hunt for assisted living facilities, and some high-pressure sales pitches that feel suspiciously like landing an apartment in New York. That is, unless I think of something EVEN MORE FUN to talk about!
Always celebrate with lots of bubbles. They make all gatherings very special