Earlier, I went for a walk in the park as the sun was setting. I've been hiking around the big reservoir (.56 miles) at least two time several times a week. Well, a few times a week. Okay, maybe twice. Well, last week I didn't make it, but this week, I'm doing better. I've been once. What can I say. Life intervened.
I've been spending a lot of time with the maternal parental unit the past few weeks. Since the trip to the ER after she fainted (and scraped her elbow and ankle and broke a rib), we've seen the regular doctor twice and met a cardiologist and an ultrasound technician. Now I know what my mother's heart looks like on the ultrasound screen: like a badger humping a chipmunk to the tune of "Working at the Car Wash." Plus, we had the annual visit from her insurance company's traveling nurse practitioner. She gave us a long list of things to bring up when we see her regular doctor next week. I am sure Mom is tired of visiting doctors. I know I am."I think I should start eating TV dinners," Mom told me a couple days ago. I thought of the partitioned trays we ate as children, Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and some kind of orange dessert, all heated to steaming in the oven and served on a folding tray on spindly legs.
"Okay," I said, "but you know you have to watch TV while you eat them," I said to make her laugh. She snickered.
After the ultrasound, we went across the street (driving, not walking) to the grocery store, chatting about the weather. As we entered the store, she forged ahead. I have learned to follow behind, to pick up the things she drops. Although, sometimes I run interference, constantly tilting my head at an angle to keep her in my left-eye peripheral vision. I confess, I have idly contemplated a leash.
The store was crowded with old people riding scooters and pushing wheeled walkers. They must have come on a bus from nearby Russellville. My mother fit right in, with her peppy blue jeans and knit polo shirt. She wears those huge bug-eye dark shades that fit over her regular glasses. I try to stay conscious of those shades at all times: we've already lost one pair on my watch, and I'm determined it won't happen again.
"Heat and serve," we said at the same time, pointing to the sign above the aisle. I followed along after her as we peered into the hazy windows of the frozen food cases, reading the labels.
"Turkey breast and mashed potatoes," I said.
"Okay, let's try one of those," she replied optimistically. I opened the case and snagged a colorful box presumably containing food.
"Tacos and enchiladas?" I asked, moving along.
"Ugh, I hate Mexican food," she said, wrinkling her nose. I wondered if she had ever actually had any, being from Oregon and white and all, but I didn't ask. At 87, she's earned the right to eat what she wants. Me, I love Mexican food. Having lived in LA for twenty years and all. But I digress.
"Oh, hey, Salisbury steak," I said. "They still make it."
"I'll try one of those." The picture didn't look that appetizing, but maybe the stuff in the box will be better. I added it to the stack in the basket.
"Look at that, chicken and pineapple," I said.
"Chicken and pineapple what?" she asked.
"I don't know, just chicken and pineapple."
"I'll try it." Wow, way to live on the edge Mom, I was thinking, but didn't say it. I grabbed the box. Soon we had about half a dozen various types of frozen dinners.
"Okay, that's enough," she announced. "Let's go." When she's done, she's done.
Today I called her and asked if she had tried any of the TV dinners.
"Yeah, I ate the turkey breast, the whole thing! But the other one wasn't a winner."
"Which one was that?" I asked.
"The chicken and pineapple thing," she said. "No more of those next time you go shopping for me."
"Okay, good to know."
Unspoken is the question of how many "next times" there might be. Last week my mother's brother's wife fell, hit her head, and was taken to the hospital. She was old and frail—even without a bad fall, her days were numbered, but falling severely shortened her calendar. She never woke up. Within a few days, she was dead. Falling is bad for just about anybody, but it's definitely life threatening for an old person. Every time I drive away from my mother's place, waving at the scrawny little old lady I barely recognize, I think, will this be the last time I see her alive? Every goodbye is the last until I see her again. But it's always been that way, hasn't it? I just never realized it until now.
