Memoirs
![Elizabeth Berg - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AQ4YDI.jpg)
I'll Be Seeing You: A Memoir
The beloved New York Times bestselling author tells the poignant love story of caring for her parents in their final years in this beautifully written memoir.
"I'll Be Seeing You moved me and broadened my understanding of the human condition."-Wally Lamb, author of I Know This Much Is True
Elizabeth Berg's father was an Army veteran who was a tough man in every way but one: He showed a great deal of love and tenderness to his wife. Berg describes her parents' marriage as a romance that lasted for nearly seventy years; she grew up watching her father kiss her mother upon leaving home, and kiss her again the instant he came back. His idea of when he should spend time away from her was never.
But then Berg's father developed Alzheimer's disease, and her parents were forced to leave the home they loved and move into a facility that could offer them help. It was time for the couple's children to offer, to the best of their abilities, practical advice, emotional support, and direction-to, in effect, parent the people who had for so long parented them. It was a hard transition, mitigated at least by flashes of humor and joy. The mix of emotions on everyone's part could make every day feel like walking through a minefield. Then came redemption.
I'll Be Seeing You charts the passage from the anguish of loss to the understanding that even in the most fractious times, love can heal, transform, and lead to graceful-and grateful-acceptance.
"I'll Be Seeing You moved me and broadened my understanding of the human condition."-Wally Lamb, author of I Know This Much Is True
Elizabeth Berg's father was an Army veteran who was a tough man in every way but one: He showed a great deal of love and tenderness to his wife. Berg describes her parents' marriage as a romance that lasted for nearly seventy years; she grew up watching her father kiss her mother upon leaving home, and kiss her again the instant he came back. His idea of when he should spend time away from her was never.
But then Berg's father developed Alzheimer's disease, and her parents were forced to leave the home they loved and move into a facility that could offer them help. It was time for the couple's children to offer, to the best of their abilities, practical advice, emotional support, and direction-to, in effect, parent the people who had for so long parented them. It was a hard transition, mitigated at least by flashes of humor and joy. The mix of emotions on everyone's part could make every day feel like walking through a minefield. Then came redemption.
I'll Be Seeing You charts the passage from the anguish of loss to the understanding that even in the most fractious times, love can heal, transform, and lead to graceful-and grateful-acceptance.
Editorial Reviews
"This is Berg's loving portrait of her family over time, and a bracingly honest exploration of the emotions that arise when caring for aging parents."-Real Simple
"[Berg] writes poignantly about her aging parents and the power of connection through the years in this compelling narrative."-Good Morning America
"Elizabeth Berg's poignantly rendered I'll Be Seeing You shares with readers a story that is both highly personal and universally applicable. In bearing witness to her parents's diminishing lives, and to the challenges these ‘setting suns' present to their loving but taxed middle-aged children, Berg delivers a bittersweet account that is sad, loving, and completely authentic. I'll Be Seeing You moved me and broadened my understanding of the human condition."-Wally Lamb, author of I Know This Much Is True
"With her trademark compassion, humor, affirmation, and grace, Elizabeth Berg renders her own family's experience in such a natural and bountiful way that it connects seamlessly to the reader's own. It pierces, this book, in all the right places."-Jessica Treadway, author of The Gretchen Question
"‘It's hard to know how to rescue someone. It's hard to know how to help them in the way they need to be helped.' With honesty and tenderness, Elizabeth Berg confronts the grief, frustration, and pain of seeing her parents through the difficult changes of aging. I'll Be Seeing You is brave, sweet, angry, loving, unbearable, and absolutely necessary."-Stewart O'Nan, author of Emily, Alone and Henry, Himself
"Elizabeth Berg's brave and beautiful memoir is proof that the heart, like a bone, can be broken and heal stronger. Unflinchingly honest, Berg walks into the tangled forest of sorrow and frustration familiar to anyone who's had to contend with the end of their parents's lives, and emerges with the understanding that love and loss are the two sides of any life well lived. You close this book reminded of our common humanity. The effect, which lingers, is something very much like grace."-Mark Slouka, author of Lost Lake and Essays from the Nick of Time
"Berg's fans will be touched by her disclosures, and readers caring for an aging parent will see themselves in Berg's painfully honest, beautifully written account, and be comforted by her insights."-Booklist (stared review)
"Berg eloquently explores the pain of realizing one's parents are in their declining years. . . . This bittersweet, touching story will particularly resonate ...
"[Berg] writes poignantly about her aging parents and the power of connection through the years in this compelling narrative."-Good Morning America
"Elizabeth Berg's poignantly rendered I'll Be Seeing You shares with readers a story that is both highly personal and universally applicable. In bearing witness to her parents's diminishing lives, and to the challenges these ‘setting suns' present to their loving but taxed middle-aged children, Berg delivers a bittersweet account that is sad, loving, and completely authentic. I'll Be Seeing You moved me and broadened my understanding of the human condition."-Wally Lamb, author of I Know This Much Is True
"With her trademark compassion, humor, affirmation, and grace, Elizabeth Berg renders her own family's experience in such a natural and bountiful way that it connects seamlessly to the reader's own. It pierces, this book, in all the right places."-Jessica Treadway, author of The Gretchen Question
"‘It's hard to know how to rescue someone. It's hard to know how to help them in the way they need to be helped.' With honesty and tenderness, Elizabeth Berg confronts the grief, frustration, and pain of seeing her parents through the difficult changes of aging. I'll Be Seeing You is brave, sweet, angry, loving, unbearable, and absolutely necessary."-Stewart O'Nan, author of Emily, Alone and Henry, Himself
"Elizabeth Berg's brave and beautiful memoir is proof that the heart, like a bone, can be broken and heal stronger. Unflinchingly honest, Berg walks into the tangled forest of sorrow and frustration familiar to anyone who's had to contend with the end of their parents's lives, and emerges with the understanding that love and loss are the two sides of any life well lived. You close this book reminded of our common humanity. The effect, which lingers, is something very much like grace."-Mark Slouka, author of Lost Lake and Essays from the Nick of Time
"Berg's fans will be touched by her disclosures, and readers caring for an aging parent will see themselves in Berg's painfully honest, beautifully written account, and be comforted by her insights."-Booklist (stared review)
"Berg eloquently explores the pain of realizing one's parents are in their declining years. . . . This bittersweet, touching story will particularly resonate ...
Readers Top Reviews
J. v. KirchbachBonbo
This is a wonderful account of the complexities of seeing your beloved parents through the ends of their lives. It is full of thoughtful observation, sometimes poignant, sometimes deeply sad, and sometimes downright funny-in other words, real, forcing readers to face aging their parents’ and their own as well. A clear eyed view at all the little goodbyes aging entails and how you want to hold on to things - time perhaps most of all.
C. Davidson
Wherever you are as an adult, this book will be helpful to you. I read it with concern for what my grown "kids" will have to deal with should I die or become incapacitated. It's not a pretty picture! Berg, a superb writer, takes us through months of experiencing her parents's physical and mental problems. The reader can see all involved clearly and can relate to the issues presented. It's a lively read too, though, with an interesting backstory and humorous moments. My only disappointment was the omission of Berg's mom's years as a widow. She was such a fascinating character and an excellent example of one who must face unhappy reality too soon. I highly recommend this book!
Judy Migliori
I related to how frustrating it is to care for elderly parents. Elizabeth Berg was frank and transparent about the difficulties her and her siblings had doing what was right for their parent’s safety. Moving from a home filled with memories is so difficult when you’re old.
Carrie M
For every daughter or son dealing with parents at the end of their lives and marriages, this book is a god send. It is real, frank, and loving in its portrayal of real life. Shepherding your parents later years is not for the faint of heart. Ms. Berg does it so well you can see yourself there, and I have been there. She is so right!
I'd recommend this beautiful book to everyone as we all move through this life, facing our own mortality and those of family members. Lovingly recorded, I am moved to reflect own the loss of my parents and my husband and my choices going forward. Thank you, Ms Berg
Short Excerpt Teaser
October 30, 2010
The failing of an aging parent is one of those old stories that feels abrasively new to the person experiencing it. At eighty-nine years of age, my father has begun, in his own words, to "lose it." This is a man who was for so many years terrifying to me. He was tall and fit, a lifer in the U.S. Army whose way of awakening me in the morning when I was in high school was to stand at the threshold of my bedroom and say, "Move out." He was never quick to smile, he put the fear of God into every young man I dated in high school, and if he said to do something, you did it immediately, no excuses. He yelled at us a lot, and, like many men of his generation, he believed in corporeal punishment. Over the years he mellowed, though he was still quick to rise to anger if the occasion seemed to call for it. But he mellowed, and none of us who really knew him could help it: not only did we love him, we liked him. The most striking thing about him was his truthfulness: the man would never lie. And he was a big softie when it came to animals and to my mother: she was the place where he put his tenderness. He had a dry sense of humor, and he was vastly intelligent.
But now. My mother says he sits sometimes with his hands over his face, unmoving, and she thinks he is depressed. Also, she has noticed things happening more and more often: a repetition of questions that she has already answered many times over. A kind of paranoia: he claims things have been taken from the glove compartment of the car he no longer drives. My mother finds him in the closet of the TV room and he says he is looking for someone who came out of there to mess with things on his TV tray. When the lid of the garbage can goes missing (after a day of high winds), he says it must be hooligans in the neighborhood-better call the police. The last time I talked to my mother on the phone, she said, "This is the best one yet. The other day, your father said, ‘What's the matter with us? We don't get along like we used to. Are you seeing someone else?' " My mother and I laughed together, but I think it's safe to say that her heart was breaking a little, too. She said, "I asked him, ‘Have you seen my wrinkles lately?' "
It wouldn't matter if he didn't have macular degeneration and could see every line in her face. My father continues to adore my mother. Always has, always will. On every occasion that called for gifts, he lavished her with beautiful things: clothes, jewelry. On one memorable Christmas Eve, he gave her a full-length white mink coat. She didn't want it, but how could she tell him, him grinning and taking pictures of her wearing it as she stood next to the Christmas tree? She rarely wore it after that day, and when he asked why, she said, "It's too warm."
They kiss when they wake up in the morning, they kiss before they go to sleep. When my father worked, they kissed when he left and they kissed when he came home. He's a man whose mother died when he was around three years old, and he was raised by an emotionally bankrupt father and a cruel housekeeper. He found everything he needed in my mother, and that was always clear to me: she was his love. His pal. His partner. His confidante. His North Star. He does not want to be without her, not in the daytime and not at night. When I once suggested that my mother should probably have time away from him every now and then, he said, "I don't have much time left. The time I do have, why, I want to spend it with her."
My mother's views are somewhat different: when my parents stayed with me in a house where the guest room had twin beds, my mother exclaimed, "My own bed!" Her absolute delight was kind of heartbreaking.
Over twenty years ago, when my father had a heart attack, it was a whopper-his heart stopped twelve times in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and at first it wasn't clear that he'd make it. I flew to Minnesota with a black dress in my suitcase, and went directly to his bedside. He was sleeping, surrounded by monitors, hooked up to IVs, pale in his hospital gown. When he opened his eyes, he said, "What are you doing here?" "Oh, I was just in the neighborhood," I said, and he smiled. Then he said, "Where's your mother?"
I have heard this question all my life. It is like a brain tattoo, my father wanting to know where my mother is, because he wants her near him always.
These days, my mother says, he follows her around the house. She will say, "I'm going in to change the sheets," and he will come in the bedroom and watch her. She doesn't get out much, but she does have a standing weekly date to go shopping with her sisters. When that happens, he sits by the kitchen window, where there is a view of the street, to wait for her. She brings home his dinner; ...
The failing of an aging parent is one of those old stories that feels abrasively new to the person experiencing it. At eighty-nine years of age, my father has begun, in his own words, to "lose it." This is a man who was for so many years terrifying to me. He was tall and fit, a lifer in the U.S. Army whose way of awakening me in the morning when I was in high school was to stand at the threshold of my bedroom and say, "Move out." He was never quick to smile, he put the fear of God into every young man I dated in high school, and if he said to do something, you did it immediately, no excuses. He yelled at us a lot, and, like many men of his generation, he believed in corporeal punishment. Over the years he mellowed, though he was still quick to rise to anger if the occasion seemed to call for it. But he mellowed, and none of us who really knew him could help it: not only did we love him, we liked him. The most striking thing about him was his truthfulness: the man would never lie. And he was a big softie when it came to animals and to my mother: she was the place where he put his tenderness. He had a dry sense of humor, and he was vastly intelligent.
But now. My mother says he sits sometimes with his hands over his face, unmoving, and she thinks he is depressed. Also, she has noticed things happening more and more often: a repetition of questions that she has already answered many times over. A kind of paranoia: he claims things have been taken from the glove compartment of the car he no longer drives. My mother finds him in the closet of the TV room and he says he is looking for someone who came out of there to mess with things on his TV tray. When the lid of the garbage can goes missing (after a day of high winds), he says it must be hooligans in the neighborhood-better call the police. The last time I talked to my mother on the phone, she said, "This is the best one yet. The other day, your father said, ‘What's the matter with us? We don't get along like we used to. Are you seeing someone else?' " My mother and I laughed together, but I think it's safe to say that her heart was breaking a little, too. She said, "I asked him, ‘Have you seen my wrinkles lately?' "
It wouldn't matter if he didn't have macular degeneration and could see every line in her face. My father continues to adore my mother. Always has, always will. On every occasion that called for gifts, he lavished her with beautiful things: clothes, jewelry. On one memorable Christmas Eve, he gave her a full-length white mink coat. She didn't want it, but how could she tell him, him grinning and taking pictures of her wearing it as she stood next to the Christmas tree? She rarely wore it after that day, and when he asked why, she said, "It's too warm."
They kiss when they wake up in the morning, they kiss before they go to sleep. When my father worked, they kissed when he left and they kissed when he came home. He's a man whose mother died when he was around three years old, and he was raised by an emotionally bankrupt father and a cruel housekeeper. He found everything he needed in my mother, and that was always clear to me: she was his love. His pal. His partner. His confidante. His North Star. He does not want to be without her, not in the daytime and not at night. When I once suggested that my mother should probably have time away from him every now and then, he said, "I don't have much time left. The time I do have, why, I want to spend it with her."
My mother's views are somewhat different: when my parents stayed with me in a house where the guest room had twin beds, my mother exclaimed, "My own bed!" Her absolute delight was kind of heartbreaking.
Over twenty years ago, when my father had a heart attack, it was a whopper-his heart stopped twelve times in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and at first it wasn't clear that he'd make it. I flew to Minnesota with a black dress in my suitcase, and went directly to his bedside. He was sleeping, surrounded by monitors, hooked up to IVs, pale in his hospital gown. When he opened his eyes, he said, "What are you doing here?" "Oh, I was just in the neighborhood," I said, and he smiled. Then he said, "Where's your mother?"
I have heard this question all my life. It is like a brain tattoo, my father wanting to know where my mother is, because he wants her near him always.
These days, my mother says, he follows her around the house. She will say, "I'm going in to change the sheets," and he will come in the bedroom and watch her. She doesn't get out much, but she does have a standing weekly date to go shopping with her sisters. When that happens, he sits by the kitchen window, where there is a view of the street, to wait for her. She brings home his dinner; ...
