I was going to write up the next AHP episode, “There Was an Old Woman” starring Estelle Winwood and Charles Bronson. But I just can’t bring myself to do it yet.
Because Psych is ending tonight.
This is making me incredibly sad, more than I would have expected….and I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, we’re always sad when a show we love ends. It’s like saying goodbye to a friend, and knowing they’re not coming back. We care about the characters and we look forward to seeing them every week.
But I’ve been feeling something greater than that, a strange sorrow. I just couldn’t figure out why. I kept thinking “What is WRONG with me? It’s a SHOW.” (I wondered if I had lingering PMS. Is that a thing?) …..And then, today, I realized: I watched this show with my mother.
My mother had ALS. ALS is a horrific disease. It is a thief. It is humiliating and painful. The last year of her life, she was completely immobile. Sometimes we’d venture out for fresh air, using the Hoyer lift, putting her in her wheelchair, adjusting her legs and arms and head. But she liked to be in her lovely, cozy home the best. And she loved to watch mysteries. She and I watched Alfred Hitchcock Presents, mainly very late at night, when she couldn’t sleep. (I’ll tell you this: it is THE BEST show to watch at 3 am, it really is. It is theater for insomniacs.)
And we watched Murder, She Wrote and made fun of its lovable ridiculousness. We watched Matlock and became hungry whenever Andy Griffith ate something on camera. We watched Monk, one of our most favorites. We watched Columbo, our most favorite. And then, one day, I said, “Mom, I want you to meet Shawn and Gus.” She was skeptical. She’d seen promos for Psych, but somehow she didn’t feel like watching it. She loved Wings (the only non-mystery show we watched regularly on DVD), and I said, “Mom, I promise, you are going to LOVE Shawn and Gus. Trust me. They are like Joe and Brian. Solving crimes. Joe and Brian solving crimes!” This intrigued her a little bit. She was a hard sell.
“Tell you what,” I said to her. “Let’s watch just the first two episodes. If you don’t like it, then I won’t make you watch it. I will totally step off. Deal?”
She nodded as best she could. Her eyes, still very expressive, looked resigned and slightly annoyed.
I brought her my DVDs. I put on the pilot episode. She watched it with interest, not flagging once. When it was over, she smiled and nodded. “One more?” I asked. She nodded.
We watched the next episode.
And the next.
And the next. And the next and the next and the next and the next.
She fell in love with Shawn and Gus. They made her laugh. They made her laugh when she was suffering. They made her laugh when she was in great pain. They gave her something to look forward to when she was in despair. Shawn and Gus became “her boys.”
“Want me to put on the boys?” I would ask, and her eyes would light up. “I told you. See? You love them!”
My mother’s illness was a frightening, grueling, gruesome time. It was also sacred and wondrous. Joy was scarce. But this show, this Little Show That Could, it brought all of us–my mother, and me, and the nurses, too–joy when it seemed there was no joy to be found. They helped us through the tragedy of her illness. They made us giggle like kindergartners when we had gotten so used to crying. More than any other show we watched, this made us forget that we were suffering. More than any other show, this one really made us feel….happy.
And this is why I am so sad to say goodbye to this show. It feels, in a way, like I’m saying goodbye to my mother all over again.
Thank you, dear James Roday, and Dule Hill, and Steve Franks, and Tim Omundson, and Corbin Bernsen, and Maggie Lawson, and Kirsten Nelson, and Andy Berman, and everyone involved in this beautiful, funny, sweet-natured television show. Thank you for the gift of laughter and thank you for being a beautiful part of our lives, even in the worst of times. We will miss you.
Love,
Pie
Good Evening, Ladies & Gentlemen. 