MOM

She has been “gone” for 52 years but remains vivid in my memory as one of the most extraordinary people to be part of the framework of my life.  I feel so sad that she missed the best part of my life:  marriage to Diane, our kids, rewarding career, and all the rest that comes with time. I talk about being in the 4th Quarter of my life.  She never lived through the 2nd Quarter of hers.  Mom was everything to my three brothers and me.  We were born on February 9th, 10th, 11th, and 20th so the family joke was that Dad had to finally send her away during the month of May.  Connie Pranger was the “it” girl of her generation.  Raised on the south side of Chicago, she had it all–brains, personality, athleticism, and beauty.  At the age of 18, she married optometrist and stellar athlete Gordy Taylor who was 26.  They were a couple destined for great things; it didn’t turn out that way.  It started out with great flourish but then, as happens to some folks, the breaks simply did not come their way, at least not good ones. 

I have wonderful memories of the “early years.”  My parents were Ozzie and Harriet and we boys were not My Three Sons but rather My Four Sons. We all thrived in a modest, very modest home with three bedrooms and one bathroom.  The Taylors made it work. I fondly remember days after school when I’d bring a friend home to play and soon there would be cookies and milk for us to enjoy.  On more than one occasion I’d hear, “Boy, Gordy, your sister is sure good looking.”  I’d smile and reveal who that beauty really was—MOM.  Connie was fiercely protective of her sons and once after an article appeared in the local paper critical of young people, she wrote an editorial stating that not all kids were societal problems and proceeded to talk about her sons and what outstanding young citizens we were.  I still have that editorial and smile every time I reread it.  She was loyal to each of us and was always there for us. 

Mom took pride in her home and was admired, loved, and respected by everyone.  She even played a mean shortstop.  Mom had a quick wit and a wonderful sense of humor which she needed living in a house with five males.  Heck, even Caesar the wonder dog was male.  Then it all ended. Just like that it was over and her world and ultimately that of the entire Taylor family would come crashing down in a disaster of the highest order. On Monday, August 27, 1962, her doctor called to say the results were in–Connie Taylor had tuberculosis.  The next day she was admitted to the Cook County Tuberculosis Sanitarium.  Our lives were to be changed forever.  I was 16 years old.

Back then, due to the contagious nature of the disease, admission to a TB sanitarium meant the patient remained there until recovery or death.  None of us had ever experienced life without Mom who was the chief of our household.  Suddenly Mom wasn’t there to greet us after school, hug us good bye, make sure our homework was complete, or there to do the thousands of things Moms do for their families.  Oldest brother, David, was off at college, so it fell on me to fill in around the house, including meal preparation.  We almost starved.  

Dad worked long hours and brothers Doug 11 and Greg 5 did what they could but long before Michael Keaton would popularize the term “Mr. Mom” I became that person.  As a high school sophomore, I dusted, vacuumed, changed beds, did dishes, cleaned toilets, washed clothes, watched my brothers, and worked part-time at the local grocery store.  Doug and Greg were not allowed to visit Mom inside the sanitarium because of their ages, so it was up to me to pack up my younger siblings in the venerable ’55 green Chevy and drive them to a location about 50 yards from a window outside Mom’s room.  I would then run inside and escort her to that same window so she could wave to her two youngest sons.  It was awful, but it was the best we could do. 

Connie Taylor never gave up.  She told us she’d get well and soon we’d all be together.  She always had a brave facade, but I think we all knew better. Her condition slowly improved; however, she had major surgery and lost all of one lung and part of another. The empty chair at the kitchen table remained that way for another year.  When we finally got her home, the old zip was gone. The joie de vivre was absent and her pain was evident. Smiles were forced and her once bright eyes dimmed. 

It just couldn’t happen, but fate would simply not leave us alone. The Taylors had no money.  Between medical expenses and financial setbacks for my dad, the Taylor family was sinking like a rock. Friends stopped coming to visit their friend, Connie, as they were afraid they would contract TB from her, reminiscent of AIDS a decade later.  We were naive and didn’t see it happening, but Mom found an ally, an insidious, cruel, unforgiving, and incrementally poisonous ally–ALCOHOL.  In her mind, she had lost everything–health, looks, friends, money–all gone.  However, concealed from us, she could find momentary relief in vodka, apparently lots of vodka.  I’m pretty confident Dad knew it was happening; their marriage was crumbling under the weight of all the adversity embroiling them.  He pretty much just looked the other way. He just didn’t know what to do. 

I went off to college at WIU, but impending disaster was in the air. Poor Mom just couldn’t catch a break.  In 1968 she had a radical hysterectomy and then in 1969 the infamous Hong Kong Flu struck which dealt her the final blow. It was June, and I’d momentarily left graduate school at the University of Florida to come see her as David called and told me, “Something is terribly wrong with Mom.  You better come home.”  He had his suspicions.

At the end of my week’s stay, things seemed pretty good.  I questioned David’s judgement in calling me.  I’d been out working in the yard, was sweating, and came in to say hi to Mom.  Sitting on the table next to her bed was a large glass of Pepsi.  I asked if I could take a sip and before she could yell, “Don’t do that!” I had taken a gulp.  It was too late.  It was almost straight vodka.  I can visualize this as if it were happening “in the moment.”  I smiled, said nothing, left her room, and went back outside. I sat in the back yard, alone, sobbing uncontrollably.  It was the most alone I’ve ever felt in my life. This just couldn’t be happening, but it was.  Connie Taylor was a raging alcoholic. I flew back to Gainesville a couple of days later to complete my graduate course work.  By the end of July, it was over.  Mom was dead. 

To this day, I lament that we couldn’t help her to help herself.  We didn’t, but I’d never heard of AA or other alternative programs to deal with alcohol abuse.  On multiple dimensions, 47 was way too young for the once bright, promising life of Constance Pranger Taylor to be dimmed forever.  I never for an instant blame Mom for any of this.  Financial calamity of the highest order, a marriage that was going to end, and spirit-draining health disasters one after another were simply more that she could endure.

In 2021 we might have seen a way to provide the help she needed. In the 1960s we did not.  I sometimes wonder if my life experience might have seen a parallel trajectory.  Had I been diagnosed with base of tongue cancer in 1970 and not 2010 would I be writing this?  I was blessed that medical science was there to save me and along with the loving care of Diane here I am. 

We all have our stories and this is part of mine. I love you, Mom.