Mom & Me Two Archive

...quote courtesy of the movie Little Buddha. Mom's rousing/bathing/eating breakfast timetable was typical. She was reluctant to arise but energized by a half hour of good natured, witty conversation in which we picked on each other's sentence constructions and made puns out of each other's comments. Several times I mentioned our plans to hit plant nurseries today. She seemed enthusiastic. For the third day in a row her appetite was robust. She asked for two pieces of toast and considered two eggs, deciding instead on an extra slice of bacon. She asked for preserves on one piece of toast. During breakfast the weather began to cloud over, thunder, then rain. I turned on the weather report. As the all day possibility of thunderstorms was announced she shuddered and suggested we "wait and see how it looks outside." When I brought the emptied garbage cans back from the curb she shot a few pointed questions at me concerning the exact degree of cold and wind outside.
    "It's cold," I confirmed, "and feels colder because of the wind. But, I think we can dodge the rain and even if we can't you'll be bundled up under an umbrella, walking, which will generate some heat. Anyway, afterwards we'll stop somewhere warm that smells like good hot food and have lunch. You won't melt," I reminded her.
    "I might," she said. "I'm awfully sweet."
    I laughed, as I always do when she's looking for a clever excuse to refuse an invitation to an outing.
    "Why don't we play some Sorry [something she has never been the first to suggest] and see what develops outside."
    Although I saw where this was leading, considering her high spirits I decided that maybe as the day progressed and she spotted periods of sun between the benign showers she'd change her mind.
    Didn't happen. Although she was up most of the day, dressed for an outing (which she only allows when an outing is planned) and took only a brief nap in the late afternoon, if I had pushed her I'm sure would not have budged. Instead we talked, watched some of the Deep Space Nine marathon on Spike TV. (we share a fascination with this series), I did some chores while she insisted she'd help me then "supervised" me while I kidded her about how helpful she was and she kidded me about how I couldn't do these things without her...and we spent the day at home.
    I am often asked by those who know and care about me why I don't do the outside store chores on my own when she doesn't want to go. I used to. Now I do this only when one becomes urgent and all my "let's get out" tricks have failed. It isn't that I have major concerns about leaving her alone. I have some, but those are usually allayed by making these trips when it becomes necessary to take them alone: When she's napping or when she's enjoying high alertness. You'd think, wouldn't you, that high alertness would signal that getting her out would be "a good thing". Sometimes, though, high mental alertness doesn't also accompany high physical alertness. When, for instance, we were battling her anemia and for my convenience I did what was necessary "outside" without trying to tempt her into joining me, after a while I sensed that she was losing touch with her life because I was neglecting to make sure she was involved in as much of the detail of it as possible. Often, too, I found that when I'd gone ahead with a trip in which she seemed interested but I negotiated the trip alone because I didn't have the patience to wait for her to be "up to it", she was not shy about expressing her disappointment. The one stipulation is that we do not cancel appointments unless the appointment is not of a medical nature and she is physically unable to make it. Even then the physical inability has to be strikingly apparent to me for her to successfully beg off.
    It's a tricky business, negotiating among my mother's need for rest when she's ill, her inclination toward inertia which becomes more acute with age (as I'm sure it does in all of us who reach Ancient Status), her continued interest in the "outside" world despite her natural listing toward remaining at home in her rocking chair at any particular time and my knowledge that when I "force" her to come out with me she rarely regrets it and often expressly appreciates my attempts to get her moving past her comfort zone.
    I could get an elder sitter. I expect, at some point this will be necessary. I am confident of my ability to size up candidates quickly and determine whether or not I can trust them with my mother so I don't have a trust issue with others being with my mother. At any rate, I am familiar with a few very reliable people up here who hire themselves out as elder sitters who I consider trustworthy and have already proven themselves to be good personality matches with my mother. When we have company I often leave her with a guest (or guests) to do an errand or take in an amusement if she and the guest in question have no interest in what I've planned. The fundamental issue is that my intense curiosity about my mother and every moment of her life keeps me here. It's important to me to try not miss a moment of what is left of her life.
    Hmmm...this leads directly into one of the "reminders" I left myself in the post before last.

2. What Mom Said about Living Alone: A few nights ago one of our conversations turned into a Contrast & Compare session of her and my inclinations toward living alone vs. living with others. I can't remember how it started nor all the twists the conversation took but at one point we talked about how much she and I are aware that I treasure living alone, thus, how surprised I am that I have not only come to adjust to living with her but enjoy it.
       "I suppose the reason this is easy for me," I remember saying, "is that you are my mother, you've known about my need for alone time since I was born and you've always accepted it." I then offered the supposition, based on her once expressing to me how proud she was to discover her ability to negotiate life on her own after Dad died and how pleased she was to have the chance to confirm her life long suspicion that was fully capable of surviving on her own, that maybe I got my comfort with and preference for living alone from her.
       Her immediate corrective response was that she has never cared for living alone. She added that the nine years between my father's death and me coming to live with her were "the worst years of [her] life." She said this without rancor or regret, simply stated it as a fact.
       I was stunned to immediate tears. "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry," I sobbed. "I wish I had known. I wouldn't have made you wait so long if I'd known."
       In her usual unsentimental acceptance she waved away what I know she considered my shockingly inappropriate reaction. "Goodness! Don't apologize! It didn't hurt me! It was good for me!"
       I know that this was, and indeed is her reality of those years. I know that despite my newly acquired knowledge that she is not at all like me in respect to preference for living arrangements, when my father died, despite her love for him, she felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She told me this long ago. I know that all the experiences she had negotiating life on her own were exhilarating for her because she related them to me with vigor and pride at least once a week, usually more often, from the day my father died until the day I came to live with her. I know that her confidence, her sense of herself and her sense of her ability to negotiate life on her own, none of which has ever been frail, expanded by leaps and bounds. I never, though, never suspected that she'd wished she could have been doing all this while sharing her household with a loved one.
       I know too, because of the nature of our first four years together, that had I been aware of her desire to live with someone and had combined households with her sooner that none of the above personal boons granted in the wake of my father's death would have been denied her, as, during our initial years together she lived her life, I lived mine and we compared notes as we both came to rest each day in our shared household. Still, the thought of my mother, of the person she is, having spent tens of thousands of hours alone at home wishing she was sharing space and camaraderie with someone she loved and who loved her, ahhh...still, I ache in retrospect for those hours about which I was not aware.
       "Mom," I said, as I fought to contain my tears, "you know, we're joined at the hip, you and I, literally because you gave birth to me and figuratively because of how we know each other. [Yes, for those of you who have never encountered me in a voice-to-ear conversation in which I am disarmed, I really do talk like this. Many who know and love me, including my mother, make it clear that it is a quirk of mine that is more easily endured than appreciated.] If some recognizable part of us can live over and over if we choose, and if you and I each decides to do this again at the same time and know each other, don't wait. If you're alone and you don't want to be, next time, Mom, don't wait nine years. Tell me. I'll come to you immediately."
       Normally when I soar into these emotional flights of fancy my mother reacts with an embarrassed, genteel, good humored dismissal. That night she looked directly into me and promised, "I will."