I arrived as usual about 6:15. Every evening by 6:20, my mother is done with dinner and complaining that she's full (she doesn't know when to stop eating). After a trip to the bathroom, she's ready to head outside. She stuffs her cigarette case in her jacket pocket, puts her over-sized sunglasses on her head, and grabs her old-style front-wheel walker, we call it her “buggy.” On the special day, I carried an extra bag containing a little gift bag, two containers of gluten-free chocolate cake, and a small container of cashew milk chocolate ice cream (my mother is gluten-free, non-dairy to stave off bouts of diarrhea).Jane lives in a one-room apartment just around the corner from the front door. My mother rapped on Jane's door: shave and a haircut, six bits. If it takes Jane less than ten seconds to open the door, I know she's been hovering with her cigarette wallet, waiting for Mom's knock. Tonight she bolted into the hall, wallet clutched to her chest, and led the way to the front door. At this point, she usually makes a disparaging remark about her appearance. I happen to like her style: I think her pin curls, mismatched track suit, and sloppy slippers are charming. Her standards are apparently higher than mine. She tossed out a couple phrases, and I reassured her she looked marvelous. This time she didn't argue: She was eager to get outside.
The evening was pleasant enough, partly sunny, but I'd heard rain was on the way. The wind was starting to kick up a bit in advance of the rainy edge of a low pressure front spinning at the Idaho-Oregon-Nevada border.
The smoking area consists of three plastic chairs, two of which sit side-by-side under a black iron structure that used to hold a lawn swing. It has two built-in side tables. Nearby is a square table that the aides sometimes sit on to take their smoke breaks. I pulled the table over and used it as my staging area.
First, I pulled out the little gift bag and handed it to Jane with a flourish. It was pink with paisleys. The tissue paper was red and white stripes, like a candy cane. I know, clash. It's what I had. I don't keep wrapping paper anymore. Inside the bag was one container of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies, Jane's favorite. The gift was the presentation: I'd given her cookies before, but never in a cute little gift bag with clashing tissue paper. She made appreciative noises.
I had a plan, and so far, so good. Instead of trying to cut cake and dish it up on the patio table, I had pre-cut the cake at home and put it into two plastic containers that previously held Gelato (yum, moment of weakness... well, two moments of weakness). The containers were the perfect size for tiny pieces of chocolate cake, with lids to keep it all secure. I even covered up the Gelato label with some festive neon red bond paper. Again, it's what I had.
“How about some cake and ice cream?” I said, reaching for my bag of goodies. The wind at that moment knocked the bag out of my hands onto the asphalt. I grabbed it up and rummaged for the plastic forks and containers of cake.
I opened up the lids so Mom and Jane could see the little morsels of chocolate cake.
“I'm so full,” said Mom.
Suddenly, the wind whipped the plastic forks and napkins out of the bag. Two white forks skittered away on the pavement. The napkins sailed off across the parking lot. I gave the old ladies the cake containers and dashed after the napkins. I rescued the forks and wiped them off (I know, yuck... three words: six-second rule, so there).
Slightly winded, I returned to the table with the napkins, well, paper towels, really... I don't buy paper napkins anymore. Not to be outdone by a little breeze, I jabbed a tiny yellow birthday cake candle into the chocolate icing rosette on top of Jane's cake. I used Mom's Bic lighter to light the candle, singing my thumb slightly in the process. I'm not experienced with lighters. I handed the container to Jane. The candle fell over and extinguished itself on the side of the container. She looked a bit overwhelmed.
“Ready for some ice cream?” I asked gaily.
Both ladies were valiantly holding their containers of chocolate cake and trying to light their cigarettes in the shelter of their elbows to ward off the wind. I could see that cigarettes were going to win out over cake. I gave up on the ice cream and suggested they put their cake containers on the side tables. After a few tries, both ladies were puffing on their cigarettes.
“Now, let's sing to Jane,” I directed. I began to sing the Happy Birthday song to Jane in my usual off-key voice while my mother harmonized in a gravelly tenor. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear”—my mother looked at me blankly, and I loudly filled in “—Jane! Happy birthday to you!” Jane beamed. Mom looked relieved.
We spent a few blissful moments hunkered against the rising wind, and then I heard my mother utter the words I have come to dread: “Uh, oh.”
“Do we need to go?” I asked, thinking dang it, couldn't her bowels have waited five more minutes?
Mom handed me her still lit, half-smoked cigarette. She might as well have been handing me a live grenade. I stubbed it out, wondering to myself, what is smoker protocol? Do we keep half-smoked cigarettes or is that tres gauche? Meanwhile, Mom was up and moving. I quickly backed my chair out of the way. Jane hurriedly stubbed out her smoke and stood up, somehow managing to hang onto her gift bag, chocolate cake container, and her wallet. I grab up my bag and stuff the ice cream and Mom's cake inside.
Meanwhile, Mom was beelining for the front door, head down, moving fast. We hustled along in her wake. I poked the doorbell. (The front door is locked at 5 pm.) We waited for the Med Aide to buzz the door open. I wondered if Mom was successfully holding it. You know, it. Finally, the door swung open, nearly bashing me in the hip. Mom plowed through. Jane and I exchanged a wave. “Happy birthday!” I cried and followed my mother down the hall to her room.
After even half a cigarette my mother's brain is short on oxygen and functioning at less than optimal. In her room, she parked her walker and headed into the bathroom. I sat on the couch to watch Flip or Flop with one ear open. When I heard my mother say, “Oh boy,” I knew that was my cue to step in and offer my services. I didn't want to, but ... it's my mother.
Breathing through my mouth, I helped her navigate the sequence that stymies her when her brain has flown south: first, the shoes come off, then the pants. Then off comes the stinky adult diaper (apparently, they are called pull-ups, not diapers). “Roll it up, put it in the trash can,” I said. (Lucky for me, she can follow directions, she just can't initiate them.) I held out the container of baby wipes. “Now wipe it down,” I said, motioning vaguely to the offending area. She got busy and managed to do something. I wasn't quite willing to inspect the damage, but I'm pretty sure it was better than it was.
I handed her a fresh pair of pull-ups. She stared at them. I bent down and helped her guide her feet into them. I helped her stand up. She yanked them awkwardly up to her waist and beyond, like a two-year-old navigating unfamiliar clothing. “Now your pants,” I said. She sat back down on the toilet and we collaborated to get her pants back on. I put her slip-on Merrells in front of her feet. She slid her toes in and stood up.
“Flush,” I said, and she flushed, watching whatever was in the toilet disappear. She closed the lid. “Wash hands,” I said, waving her toward the sink. She washed her hands.
“How do you feel?”
“Much better,” she said.
“Let's watch the end of Flip or Flop,” I suggested. We sat side by side on the couch.
A few minutes later, she patted me on the knee and said, “Thank you, daughter.”
