Patricia A Coleman

This is the space where I write about my mother, Patricia, or Pat as most of you know her. When I started this, I looked at some samples and read through how this is “normally” done. I wrote it that way at first, and it just never felt right.

I decided that if you are here right now, you already know Pat. You remember your experiences with her as a friend, tennis partner, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. You remember her working with my Dad in advertising, real estate, Steven Ministries, and even as your driver for school. The people who knew her best as a wife and daughter are gone now, but these memories live on in you, the people that came to this page and wanted to say goodbye.

All of these emotions reminded me of a time when my son, Gabriel, interviewed Pat for a school assignment. I remember how excited she was to talk to him. This was at the beginning of her fight with Alzheimer’s Disease. When he was finished writing, we read it to her, and she loved it so much. I asked him to update what he wrote for her now that she has passed away because I know she never enjoyed reading about friends who have passed away. It made her sad, and I know she wouldn’t want that for you and neither do we.

Rolodex

I wonder what it’s like to have a lifetime of stories. And then what it’s like to not remember many of them on some days, any of them on others, and, on a rare few, to remember each and every one in more vivid detail then the day they happened. I did’t think the mind could hold all of that—after all, I’m forgetting things I swore I’d always remember and I’m only 15. I’d tell you what they were, but then again, I’ve forgotten. Maybe it’s because I’m young that the memories of what I deem significant are blurring at the edges. I’ve yet to have a first job, for example, and that’s something you’d remember. My grandmother, Patricia, sure remembers hers, and I can recall the light flickering across her face when she told me about it. “I was an outdoor advertising secretary—assistant to the company’s owner.” She wasn’t even twenty years old yet. “I loved how I had so many responsibilities, and men would have to come to me and ask me for their assignments and things like that.” She told me she worked well back then, and added that she could type like a “whiz-bang.” Again, even the little things like the appropriate use of “whiz-bang” in a sentence had remained in my grandmother’s memory for all these years, yet she continued to be separated from what had happened earlier that week, that day and even that minute. And even if thirty seconds later, the exact way she had articulated her recollection were to fade, I’d remember it. Her enthusiasm and proudness were tangible, and now they were a part of me.

So, like my grandmother, I chose to start a pioneering trail early. It’s not necessarily a first job, no, but it’s a first action for a cause. The purple Alzheimer’s Awareness bracelets I wear to school aren’t the first bracelets I’ve ever worn, but they’re the first ones that burn with passion on my wrist. Our loved ones aren’t the first ones to suffer from this disease, but with each step we take forward in our walk, we’re one step closer to finding a way to make them the last.

In case you’re wondering, my grandmother had a lot more stories to share than just the one. I’m sure she has a lot more stories up in her head, too, likely so many that it’d take a lifetime to fully recall. I’m thankful for every story I get to hear and every second I get to spend with my grandmother, both because I love her so much and because she’s taught me so much. For instance, back to what I was saying earlier...the human mind can, actually, hold all of those stories. I’ve learned that it’s not so much a list of them up in there, though; more like a rolodex, a rolodex of memories, and in my grandmother’s case, she just can’t always flip to the right file. They’re all still in there, though, just like I know the “whiz-bang” that once was is still inside my grandmother too.

I’m 19 now. Looking back on this story and the time I spent with Grandma, I think it’s safe to say that the whole concept of dying—of submitting—wasn’t quite in line with her character. I think that’s why it came as such a surprise when it happened. I just didn’t know what to say when I picked up the phone. But I know that she didn’t submit to anything. She left on her own terms.

Asleep and 3,000 miles away, I dreamt that she died on the night that she passed. Awake and only inches from her, my dad said he felt her squeeze his hand after hours and hours of lying completely still. It was at the exact moment he had said “goodbye” for the night.

Knowing her, I think it’s also safe to say that these sort of things don’t just happen on their own. They’re proof to me that she went with deliberation, and in peace. She was doing her rounds. I can’t help but smile, just a little. Grandma called her shots until the very end.

What else would you expect from a whiz-bang like her?

Gabe Coleman

A graveside service for Patricia will be held 1pm Tuesday, May 20, 2025 at Serenity Gardens Memorial Park, 13401 Indian Rocks Rd, Largo, FL 33774.

To view the recorded service, please visit : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8GtJF2YemY

In lieu of flowers, contributions in Patricia's memory may be made to Alzheimer's Association, http://act.alz.org/goto/ForPat