How one artist’s songs scaled the walls of my Mom’s dementia

I heard the news that Olivia Newton John died while I was driving home from work and an immense sadness rushed in like a wave. I pulled into my driveway and found a list of her songs on Spotify. As “Have you never been mellow” filled the car, the familiar voice like an old friend, I sat in my car and cried.

I was shocked by my outsized reaction to Olivia Newton John’s death. I’m not a rabid fan of many artists, have never sought autographs or longed to run into a famous someone I admire. And yet, on that mostly uneventful Monday afternoon when I had gone to work and the gym and was headed home to make dinner, the news of this death, an English/Australian singer who I loved as a child, struck me hard.

Olivia Newton John’s music puts me in a very specific time and place — as a child, about 8 or 9 years old, listening to records in my childhood bedroom. I would lie on the green shag rug in my room and listen to the records on repeat, sometimes with my best friend Denise, who lived down the street. We would dress up and pretend to be Olivia, complete with legwarmers and barrettes with ribbons in our hair, just like Xanadu. I cut my hair short when I was 11, inspired by the short crop of Olivia’s early 80s phase. I was always jealous of Denise and her blond hair as she looked more like Olivia. I hear “Please Mister Please” and “Sam” and “Let me be there” and I think of that safe, pink bedroom where I danced and dreamed and sang and Olivia was queen.

And when I hear Olivia’s songs, I think of my Mom, her voice mixing with Olivia’s as she sang around the kitchen to the radio. She would knock on my bedroom door while Olivia’s records were playing and tell me I’d wear those records out from listening to them so much. Grease or Xanadu would come on the tv yet again and she would laugh and say to Denise and I, “haven’t you girls seen this movie a thousand times already?” Mom loved Olivia, too and we would sing in the car together to “Summer Nights” or “Hopelessly devoted to you” in the front seat of the family station wagon.

When I was away from home in college or in graduate school and Grease would come on tv, I would call my Mom and without even a hello ask, “Guess what’s on tv?” She would quickly reply, “Grease!” and we’d laugh and try to imagine just how many times I’d seen it. I knew every line to the movie, every word to the songs on those records. Its a memory we share and laugh about together, my silly love of Olivia Newton John.

When I heard the news of Olivia’s death, I wanted to tell my Mom and talk about it with her. But I was afraid she wouldn’t remember. My Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease over six years ago, and in that time I’ve adjusted to the impact of dementia on her mind and to what I can expect from her. For the most part I’ve come to accept the many ways in which I can no longer share things with my mom. I can’t tell her my struggles or look to her for reassurance when I’m upset about something big or small. Most days I can accept all I’ve lost of her and focus instead on hearing her familiar voice, seeing her smile, and feeling the warmth of her hugs.

But lately the loss of my Mom – the person she was before, has been eating away at me. Maybe its because my children are morphing into teenagers, because my oldest nephew and niece are going off to college, because I’m approaching 50…I want to experience these aspects of my life with my Mom, share my fears and hopes, and hear hers in return. I want more than a sweet smile and a nod of her head. I want more than a one-dimensional reaction that is expressed and then forgotten. I want to argue with her, get angry about an opinion, or have her disagree with me about something, anything! I want the nuanced and complex aspects of a mother and daughter relationship that I foolishly took for granted before her diagnosis. And on the day Olivia Newton John died, I wanted my Mom to experience that loss with me. I wanted her to remember how much I loved those songs, how I played the records over and over, how she and I sang together in the car.

I called my Mom three or four times that evening. She can’t keep track of her cell phone and my calls always goes to voicemail. I made dinner for the kids, felt better with the distraction, and wondered if I should just let it go. If Mom didn’t remember, if she replied vacantly to the news with “oh, who was that honey?” it would shatter my memories of Olivia, mom, and me. I thought maybe it was best she didn’t answer and then I wouldn’t have to know.

I called again, after nine o’clock, a time when Mom is usually tired and often confused. She answered this time and I could hear energy in her voice. She figured out how to switch on facetime on her cell phone and I could see her smile. I told her about Olivia, showed her the old records I had spread out on the carpet. I prompted her with the memory of the songs and the records, but she knew. She remembered how often I played them, she laughed as I showed her the scratched LPs. For a moment we were back in my childhood bedroom with the green shag carpet, pink walls, and one plastic red record player, when the world was simple and safe, and my Mom was whole.

Olivia, thank you for the music that made me dance, sing, and dream.

And Mom, thank you for remembering the songs we both loved, for remembering that moment in time. Thank you for remembering me.