That's a photo of my mother taking a photo of me taking that photo of her. It was shot outside the Paris hotel in Las Vegas, the last time I took her there, which was more than a decade ago. Carolyn and I took turns pushing her around the town in a borrowed wheelchair and we all had a very good time. I wish I could take her there again but her health isn't quite up to it.
Where I can take her is out for lunch or dinner here in L.A. Yesterday, we took her to the Musso & Frank Grill up in Hollywood to celebrate her 90th birthday, which is today. We went yesterday instead of today because today is Easter and restaurants are too crowded on Easter. Also, she wanted to go to that restaurant and it's not open on Sundays. She had fried scallops and a lovely bread pudding covered in strawberries, and enjoyed both very much.
For reasons above and beyond longevity, my mother is an extraordinary woman. She's also pretty funny. Recently at a party where a lot of my friends met her for the first time, I heard the following from many of them: "Oh, it's easy to see you got your sense of humor from your mother, Mark." I disagree and so does she. She got her sense of humor from me. Growing up, I got mine from a bevy of sources: Comic books, MAD, Soupy Sales, Laurel and Hardy, cartoons on TV, Stan Freberg — fittingly, Stan was at that party — and others. And I think my mother learned to talk like me so we could communicate. We still do…and I think the last time we had any sort of argument or reason for anyone to raise their voice, I was still in junior high school. My father didn't yell much, either. I think we had less than a dozen angry moments, the last of which occurred when I moved out and into my own place at age 23. That was more than half my life ago.
I keep reading about dysfunctional families and hearing horror stories from acquaintances who were reared in one. At times, I think I grew up in one of the few functional ones of the 20th century. I had friends…I'd go to their homes and in two or three visits I'd literally hear more yelling and tantrums and threats of discipline than I experienced in my entire childhood. My father was half the reason for that and my mother was the other half.
She's amazed to be 90. Absolutely, utterly amazed. Her mother darn near made it to 100 but my mother didn't expect anything close to that, especially since she's been smoking since she was a teen and has never fully quit. She's cut way, way down but can't give it up altogether. She still has all her wits about her. The body doesn't work so well and she spends an indecent percentage of her life at or in the hospital for check-ups and tests and occasional stays…but she's still well aware of the world she lives in and how long she's lived in it. Yesterday at the restaurant, I asked her what her earliest memory was of something "new" they had in her household. She thought a minute and answered, "Sliced bread." At the time, it was the biggest thing since…well, sliced bread.
One reason she's still around is that she has this great doctor. If you could invent the perfect doctor to take care of an elderly parent, you'd whip up one very much like Dr. Bruce Wasserman. If he lived across the street from her and didn't have any other patients, he'd be perfect. He's been her doctor (and when my father was with us, my father's doctor) for more than thirty years. When my mother turned 80, he surprised her on her birthday by sending flowers. He did that when she hit 85, too. She thought that was the most wonderful thing and I suspect they did more good for her than any prescription he ever wrote.
For a long time after that whenever she had health problems, I'd tell her she had to get better so she wouldn't miss out on the 90 arrangement. No other reason. At dire moments, she'd actually say, "Well, it looks like I won't be around to get the 90th birthday flowers from Dr. Wasserman." She was wrong. Two dozen roses arrived on Friday.
The floral displays get better and better. This one was especially stunning and I've told her she has to stick around just so I can see what Dr. Wasserman sends when she hits 100. She thought about it a moment, shrugged and said, "All right. I'll do it…but only for you!"