Welcome back. I’m glad you’re tuning in. As we get started here, it seems appropriate to explain what “the Mothership” means.
THE PERSON
For me, first and foremost it is my mother Nina, who passed away from Alzheimer’s in 2019. Nina grew up in a very New England household in a very New England neighborhood outside of Boston. She left it all behind in one leap at age 22 when she married Buck, who was Californian through and through.
She opted out of her comfort zone and opted in wholeheartedly to her new home, and the family she inherited and built with Buck. But, New England never fully left her, nor did her upbringing and education. Well-read, quick-witted and always on her etiquette game, she would correct her children’s grammar reflexively, but also cut people endless slack. She was accommodating to a fault. For this, her insolent quasi-heathen kids called her “Mommy the martyr.” Her open-door, open-heart policy meant always saying yes to do things for others, and never putting herself first. It felt like a sellout to her own needs—like she was going along to get along. But it was a long play that filled her soul and won her a massive following.
She also had a bottomless well of kindness and patience. This served as a constant reminder to me that patience can indeed skip a generation, or maybe that half a genetic dose wasn’t enough to move the needle. But her example was also a North Star, an aspiration to be a better version of myself, a little more like Nina.
THE PLACE
The Mothership also happens to be the nickname for KT22, a mountain in the valley where I grew up. I’ve gotten used to places being renamed or reclaimed. The entire valley itself was renamed, and doesn’t exactly roll off my tongue. KT was never called the Mothership when I lived there, but I fully embrace the name. It sticks because it’s apt. KT is iconic, no-nonsense, a place to celebrate all the rugged beauty and challenge that Mother Nature can throw at you. You click your skis on at the bottom of the mountain, and the lift transports you directly to everything skiing can be. Like your mother, it’ll kick your butt in a firm but loving way if you don’t respect her.
For me, the Mothership is also the house where I grew up, where my parents hosted countless guests and strays, making them all feel welcome and loved. It’s open, seventies-era living room has built-in wrap-around couches beneath windows that let in views of mountains and meadow, trees and sky. Sitting in that living room, looking out at the mountains every day and being steps from the kitchen—Nina’s domain—was the Mothership Trifecta.
THE THING
There’s one more in this mix. Metaphorically (because we all need one mother of a metaphor), the spacecraft iteration of the Mothership hits on a lot of levels. It’s a vessel that houses our core of knowledge and sensibilities. It swoops in when we need to be rescued, or simply hovers as a reminder that there is a place where we can beam up, no matter how alien we feel, and always feel normal. We can be grumpy or surly or goofy or unsure. We can say anything and still have a place at the table, be understood and get a free bowl of soup. Without it, we’d be lost in space. It’s the tether to our past and the launch-pad for our future— the place we all leave behind someday, but that never leaves us.
Where there is a Mothership there is assurance that you are someone’s charge. As such, everything you do is a fabulous success at best and a spectacularly failed experiment at worst. Losing that relationship means that nobody is waiting on the sidelines with a hug and a consolation cupcake. The Mothership is something, someone or a combination that is different for everyone. Whatever it is, losing it is a BFD.
When your mothership is a person with Alzheimer’s or another dementia, that loss is gradual and almost imperceptible, like a strong connection that gets staticky, then intermittent and hard to piece together. Then one day you realize the person on the other side is beyond reach, and you never got to say goodbye. Even as this seismic shift is happening, the loss is so protracted that it is hard to recognize and articulate, and stays buried inside. Cue the sad music…
LOST AND FOUND
Or not! If loss was just about loss, it’d be no fun at all to write about and less fun to read. Losing the Mothership is about losing your safety net, but it’s also about finding and building the community that becomes your new one. When I left the west for the east to take my first “real job”, I gained a new appreciation for Nina—not only for her own wholesale cross-country move all those years earlier, but also for her ability to cheer confidently as her baby left the nest. When Nina left home, she knew she was leaving for good. I had every intention of returning to familiar territory in the west after a year or two; but I think she knew I was leaving for good too, long before I knew it. Still, she encouraged me to find my wings.
She also probably knew from experience that it may be scary to head out into the unknown, but it’s not all rainbows and unicorns you leave behind. Distance has its advantages in this journey, and we’ll talk plenty about that too.
But first, we’ll talk about the power of the Alzheimer’s community—why I missed it then, and why I’m leaning into it now. Thank you so much for reading, and I look forward to our visit next week.
P.S. For those of you who don’t happen to be ski racing fanatics, this nice article went up yesterday in Ski Racing. It’s been a solid thirty years since I’ve been the subject vs the writer, so I’m flattered for the press. Thanks to Shauna Farnell and Ski Racing for serving up Edie 101!
“Then one day you realize the person on the other side is beyond reach, and you never got to say goodbye.” — I feel this. Spot on. Thanks for sharing, Edie! <3