Sunday, May 11, 2014 

Mom is in the kitchen eating her cereal and performing in the percussion section—spoon and plate. I am in my office eating my cereal. Have already walked and fed the pups and washed the kitchen floor. Too much pollen everywhere. Am showered and off to church in a few minutes. Will be a little late. Rob is still sleeping. Need to settle mom and prefer to miss the “praise” music. Very unmusical. Preys on emotions. Prefer the old hymns and lyrics of yesteryear, when people knew how to create melodies and write beautiful verse.

Am remembering Margie and how she came here to celebrate my 60^th birthday with the girls and cousin Marje and her daughters. We didn’t know then that Margie would not make it to her 65^th birthday. I’m glad we didn’t. I’m glad we lived unknowing as we did. I plan to send the girls a mother’s day e-card. This is going to be a tough one for them to celebrate. Marcy is also celebrating her birthday today.

And here I am with my mother—97 years old and banging away on her cereal bowl, killing those little Cheerios and knocking whatever cheer is left in them. She refused at first to pee this morning. But I sent her back into the bathroom, and sure enough… Obstinate woman, but always grateful. I need to get to the bottom of my rising anger. This is the same woman who said, “I always preferred my son over my daughter.” I am sure she is here with me for a good reason. I have things to work out and most assuredly wish I did not! I also most assuredly will not be canonized any time soon!

I tell you there is another thing that bothers me. Everyone seems to think it’s so nice that I take such good care of my mother. But I feel that, although I see to her physical needs very carefully, I do not or cannot see to any other need. It’s so frustrating. How do you discuss anything or say anything of substance or meaning to a woman who queries why I would call her husband, “daddy”? Something to ponder another time. Off to church. Dr. Mary called earlier and left a message. She has put my name in the Ardas again and is praying for me under Yogi Bhajan’s banyan tree at this very moment. And now I am crying. God bless Dr. Mary! God bless Yogi Bhajan! God bless my mommy and my daddy.

 

Later—

Been receiving these Facebook poems and notes all day about how wonderful it would be to have mother alive—if only she were here to tell me how much she loves me. Let me tell you having your mother here to change her diaper, to wash her and care for her is one thing. To answer to Rose or Ann is another. This business about it being your turn to take care of her is pure bunk. My mother is on the decline. She is not a growing, smiling, happy child. She won’t outgrow the diapers. She won’t outgrow the need for me to hold her hand. She won’t outgrow asking the same questions over and over again. She won’t outgrow asking your husband’s name or the name of “the white dog” or “the black dog.” She won’t stop seeing the cat on the ceiling fan or the man in the tree. She won’t learn how to tie her shoes or put on her socks. She will never walk alone. She will never prepare another meal.

It’s no fun watching your mother deteriorate. You take care of her with a good heart or as good as you can muster at the moment. But it’s taxing. It isn’t fun. It isn’t heartwarming. It’s heartbreaking. And you fight with yourself every minute as you think “someday this room will be my dining room.” You won’t let yourself go there out of both guilt and sorrow. But you do go there and stop yourself each time. You berate yourself each time. You ask for forgiveness each time. And you wonder how it fell to your lot to see your mother decline and be given the task to love her through this time. It’s almost too much to bear.

As for this day: I grilled some pepper steaks and broccoli with onions in my special grill basket. For dessert, we had apple strudel. Quite delicious. I hope mom enjoyed the meal. I know if I ask her about it now, she won’t remember a thing. But she will laugh and smile and say, “Oh yes, it was delicious.” Yet, she will have no idea what I am talking about.

For all those who wish they still had a mother, please come here. I would be happy to share my mother with you. When I go to the symphony, I won’t have to hire a sitter. When I go to the supermarket, I won’t have to call Betty to tell her I am leaving my house; keep an eye on mom. Rob and I don’t go out much, and we rarely go out together. When I garden, I have mom sit on the porch so she can see me. When I work, she is on her own and very lonely. Mom doesn’t want to talk necessarily or she will be found out that she knows nothing and no one. She just wants company, particularly someone to sleep with—something she will not get.

She is uncomfortable at other people’s houses and she cannot take long car trips. She needs to be in her known environment. She needs to be at home, where she knows how to find the bathroom, her bed, her television, her tissues, her nightgown. Hers is a small world and getting smaller. There is no expansion. There is contraction. There is no increasing joy. There is increasing fear. Is she here merely because she is afraid to go? I can hardly know the answer. But I do know that my role in this is yet to be defined. Perhaps it will be when she is gone. And I dread that day, because each day, we inch closer and closer to it. And I am less ready than she is.