Just another day in the end of a life

I pay attention to current events. Today the world avidly watches the Thai boys' rescue and the World Cup soccer matches. I don't care much about soccer (don't tell my English cousins), but I am rooting for those boys to survive their harrowing ordeal in the flooded caves. Last week I told my mother about their predicament and then wished I hadn't. Then I realized, odds are, she won't remember the story. Sure enough, when I told her today that four boys had been rescued safely, she looked at me blankly and I had to describe their plight all over again. Lesson learned: No current events for Mom.

Sometimes she surprises me, though. When I visit every evening, she's almost always got some HGTV program on her TV. She rarely sees the news. Still, last week Mom told her smoking buddy Jane about the effects of the Trump administration's "zero tolerance policy" on little Latino kids; she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. It's funny to see two tiny old ladies get righteously angry over politics while sucking on cigarettes. Did I discuss politics with her? I can't remember. Any day now, I fear I will be moving in next door to my mother. Assisted living, here I come.

Last night the smell of poop met me halfway down the hall. Uh-oh. I entered her room but didn't see her. The stench was overpowering. I immediately switched to mouth-breathing mode, something I've learned to do when cleaning the cat box.

“Are you okay?” I called out.

“I think so,” she replied. I came around the corner that separates the living area from the sleeping /kitchen /bathroom area and found her sitting on her office chair trying to get her feet into the legs of her jeans.

“Was there a problem?”

“Well...”

I quickly figured out that she'd had an episode of diarrhea. She had managed to change her pull-ups before I got there (maybe there is a god), and now she was just about done putting herself back together. (I assume she'd figured out how to put on a clean pair of... oh, boy. Not going there.)

“But what do I do with...?” she said, pointing to the trash basket in the bathroom, where the offending undergarment was giving off major fumes.

I gritted my teeth and dove to the rescue.

“They keep more plastic bags in the bottom of the trash can,” I said. I yanked the plastic bag over the dirty pull-up and tied it closed. I lifted out the roll of plastic trash bags to show her. “See? More bags.” She looked impressed. I thought, why bother, she won't remember this. Sigh.

I fixed up the trash can with a new bag and shoved the bag with the diaper down into it, hoping for the best. It's so weird to wear disposable underwear. I guess I did once. Well, hmmm. I think maybe they were washable cloth diapers back then. When did Pampers get invented? Not that my parents could have afforded disposable diapers on a cop's salary. My poor young mother, washing cloth diapers for four kids. The word payback wafted through my mind. I slid a window open to air the place out.

Mom was a bit worn out after the excitement of changing her jeans, but she was ready to go outside for a smoke. Nicotine rules. We were soon on our way down the hall to pick up Jane. By the time we got back to Mom's room, the smell was gone and we'd both forgotten it ever happened.