On Sunday, two planes, a train, and a bus later, I walked into my apartment, which smelled like mold and neglected cat. On Sunday, Portland was just starting a far-too-short heat wave. I threw open the windows and reveled in the warm air. My cat lolled on his blue cotton rug, ecstatic at my return, showing me (almost) unconditional affection in exchange for tummy rubs. It doesn't get much better than that.Today the temperature dropped 30 degrees, compared to yesterday. My feet are freezing. If I close my eyes, I can just barely conjure the feeling of the plush hotel pillows, the smooth sheets, the sound of the pesky fan that intermittently shattered the silence. My vacation memories are receding quickly into the past, muscled aside by the demands of the maternal parental unit.
I visited my mother on Sunday evening. We are developing a ritual. I show up just after dinner (they call it supper at the assisted living place). Mom is either sitting outside in the smoking hut or stretched out on the couch, watching television. On Sunday, she brought me up to date on the state of her bowels.
The blue skies of Albuquerque were fading fast in my mind as I listened to my mother's tale of intestinal woe. We discussed the menu. She couldn't remember what she had eaten for lunch. I asked if she'd eaten anything the night before. She couldn't tell me. I'm pretty sure her late night snacking wasn't helping.
“We won't be able to figure out if certain foods are causing this diarrhea problem if you are eating all this junk,” I said, looking at the cookies and crackers in my mother's cupboards and fridge.
“I know,” she said. She agrees with everything I say these days. Sometimes I see a look on her face that indicates she may be hearing a foreign language coming out of my mouth.
On Monday morning, she called me.
“It was bad today,” she said morosely. I knew what it referred to.
“I'm coming over tonight,” I said. “That's it. No more dairy. No more wheat. No more junk food.”
That evening, I raided my mother's cupboards and fridge. I took everything except two boxes of saltine crackers, which I placed on a shelf high beyond the reach of her skinny bent fingers. I took her Mint Milano cookies. I took her generic cheerios and rice krispies. I took her chocolate muffins. I took the crackers that her friend Tiny had given her, and the lactose-free yogurt. I took the graham crackers. And I took the last bit of her cherry pie that had been sitting on her counter for two weeks.
I packed all the food in two bags and put it in my car. Then I went to the store and bought gluten-free bread and Cheerios (the real thing), gluten-free wheat-free crackers, some vegan substitute butter, some frozen fruit popsicles (with no high fructose corn syrup), and two bananas. I took it all back to Mom's apartment and unloaded the loot.
We took the Cheerios and bread down to the dining room where residents can use a big refrigerator to store things. Mom already keeps her rice milk there.
The night cook was cleaning up after the evening meal. She saw the box of Cheerios and said, “Don't put that in there. It goes here.”
Finally we got everything stowed. Mom collapsed on the couch, worn out from the walk.
I went home, tossed the pie, and saved the cereal for the birds, squirrels, and rats. I ate the crackers for dinner. I stored the Mint Milanos into my own refrigerator. After one day of eating Mint Milanos, I gathered up all the cookies and muffins, put them in a trash bag, and walked them out to the big garbage can. Thank god I'm not so far gone I will dig in the trash for Mint Milanos. But I confess, it did cross my mind. I'm a little stressed out.
I have this recurring fear that my mother and I will end up in adjoining rooms in some linoleum-floored Medicaid facility far from friends and family, slobbering into bibs, unable to recognize each other. And the food will be parboiled crap, full of gluten and sugar. And I won't be able to protest.
The vertigo scrapes the inside of my head constantly. Tomorrow I am taking Mom to the doctor. I fear I will fail to tell him everything that needs to be said, because I can't remember things anymore. Being a caregiver is hard. A weekend vacation isn't enough. I can't imagine how parents do this everyday for 18 (or more) years. All I can say is, It's a good thing I never had kids.
