By Terri Schlichenmeyer, May 2015 Issue.
Throughout your life your parents ignored many things: That time in high school when you snuck out to party, they knew, but they looked the other way. Same thing when you wore make-up, missed curfew and that one regrettable hairstyle. They often “didn’t see” more than you’ll ever know.
The problem is that sometimes they ignored too much. Did they, for instance, know who you really were? In Bettyville, the new memoir by George Hodgman, one man wondered …
Elizabeth Baker Hodgman – Betty, to most people – didn’t sleep much.
At age 90, she was prone to wandering, fussing at the kitchen, piling and restacking paperwork and playing the piano in the middle of the night. She was “suffering from dementia or maybe worse.”
Unfortunately, this also meant her son, George, didn’t get much sleep, either.
George, an out of work editor and freelancer, moved from New York to Paris, Mo., to take care of his mother. His stay went from a week to a month to a year. Betty didn’t like it; she hated needing someone. George didn’t like it, either; too much had changed.
“I was Betty’s boy,” he said, and he’d been that way all his life. George loved his father fiercely, but he absolutely favored his mother. Still, he desperately wished he’d been able to tell his parents he was gay, that he felt alone, that he’d survived too many failed romances, that he’d had substance abuse issues. Surely, they knew, but no one ever talked about it.
Now, as he cared for her, there were times when Betty infuriated him. She could be rude, loud, stubborn and was prone to fits of anger for no reason. She flatly refused any thoughts of nursing homes or assisted living.
The problem was her dementia, George reminded himself repeatedly. He understood that she was rightfully fearful because she knew she was losing herself and “I can only imagine how scary it is…”
And yet, “I think I have survived because of Betty, more than anyone,” George said as she eased away. “There are so many things I will carry when I leave Bettyville with my old suitcase.”
We meet, through the eyes of George, Betty’s friends and family and we’re told a story about a time past, a life well-loved and losing a mother long before she’s really gone.
Without a doubt, you’d be forgiven for reaching for a tissue while you’re reading this book. Heck, you might want a whole box of them, but there’s a lot more to Bettyville than heartstring-tugging.
Between this story’s inevitable sadness I also found joy. Author George Hodgman keenly remembers his small-town childhood from all sides: churchgoers and alcoholics, kindness and bullying, adolescent crushes and baffling foes as well as off-limit subjects that weren’t discussed.
Be prepared to laugh and cry as you’re reading this fine memoir – especially if you’re a caretaker for an elderly parent. For you, in particular, Bettyville is a book that can’t be ignored.
