It’s the regular Saturday visit to mom. The intention is to visit with my mother, of course, see how she’s doing, and to give my father his respite – an opportunity to have some “me time” that he seems to long for, or at least talk about all the time, but never seems to take advantage of when I arrive. He dithers and dawdles, talks about going out of the house, makes a pot of coffee, plays with his computer, then sits down, announces he’s leaving the house, gets up, pours his coffee, announces he’s leaving the house again…. This leave taking typically takes about two hours. He’s in no hurry to go, just wants the company of another adult, but I grow more and more exasperated by the wasted time. I, too, have things to accomplish. Things I need to do on my precious days off.
It’s a life on hold in many respects. For him. For me. For my siblings. Our partners. My mother has been in a slow decline for many years now. But, and here’s the big But, she is entirely mobile and healthy as a horse. She’s 89 and comes from a long-lived family – both of her parents survived into their mid-90s so there is little reason to believe that she, too, won’t have the same life expectancy. It’s her mind that is in decline. Her body is playing catch-up, in a leisurely way. We can still take a brisk enough amble in the park, but must guide her away from encounters with people because we just don’t know what will come out of her mouth and whether it will be considered offensive or not. She has no filters. People don’t know about her condition and what it all means. How could they? Furthermore, she doesn’t look 89. She looks old, don’t get me wrong, but she’s lucky in her genes. She looks, I don’t know? 75? Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to not look my age when I’m 89, but debate with myself whether I’d want that or my mind in good functioning order. I vote for the latter.
Today we are playing the game “If I were a key, where would I be?” Mom has hidden the key to a china cabinet which contains nothing of real importance except for the rolodex where she keeps all the phone numbers she can’t remember, but it would be nice to get into it. The key hasn’t turned up, although mom is convinced someone has come in the night and stolen it. Of course. It’s somewhere. Hidden in an empty yogurt cup, of which there are zillions. Or tucked away in her purse that is full of lots of other forgotten things.
She has had a runny nose and cough for weeks now. This isn’t really unusual. She’s suffered from allergies for years. It’s a dry day, cool for June 13, even in Connecticut. The pollen runs wild and my car is covered in a yellow film. But no pills. My mother has resisted even aspirin for a headache in all of my memory. I think she could have broken a leg and not accepted a pain reliever. So something to relieve her allergies? I think not. It’s ingrained as part of her nature and makes it difficult to get her to accept medications that are necessary to keep her, and the rest of us, I’ll admit, comfortable. The anti anxiety medication at least keeps her on an even keel. Her moods are less volatile.
Some days are better. Today wasn’t a bad day. Dad was out for two and half hours and mom didn’t ask to call him once. Maybe because she knows the number is safe in the china cabinet.
Mom talked about death a lot today. She was convinced my grandmother, my dad’s mother, died recently. I asked her when she thought grandma died. She said a couple of months ago. My paternal grandmother died in 1990 or so, but convincing my mother of the date of my grandmother’s demise is a fruitless exercise and just upsets her if you point out grandma has been dead for 30 years, so you go along with the fiction. And why not? It harms no one and keeps her in the present. She spoke of her cousin’s death last year, but then confused other deaths in the family, conflating her death with others.
Dad came home after his excursions jubilant that he found what he was seeking: Shirts with two breast pockets instead of only one. It made him happy. One is patently too large; even my mother noted this. But it was only three bucks at Goodwill, so… .
As I was writing this, dad asked if I was working. No, I said. Just writing. He asked if it was a memoir or a novel. I don’t know what it is. I only feel it needs to be done.
