I try not to think too much. It's my defense against cognitive dissonance. Cognitive dissonance occurs when my body does one thing while my brain says do something else.I was sitting in a meeting room last week, waiting for someone, anyone, to show up. I used the time alone to write in my journal, pondering the utter powerlessness I have over the end of my mother's life. I know the outcome. I just don't how how, where, and when. I want to know so I can be ready. My body says prepare! Prepare to flee! Prepare for the end! Prepare for the worst! My brain says chill out, there's nothing you can do.
I write in cheap composition notebooks that I buy by the dozen at Target during back-to-school. I fill about one notebook per month with my resentful whining, pithy insights, and funny drawings. I have journals going back to 1995. I plan to bequeath them to my sister. She doesn't know that yet. She can recycle them after I'm gone; at that point, I presume won't care. Possibly I shouldn't care now what happens to them, but I have a vain hope that they contain stories that will someday make me rich. Or if not rich, successful. Or if not successful, published.
About 20 minutes before the end of the meeting, my quiet time was interrupted by a rotund short-haired woman wearing flowered pants and Crocs. It was Margaret, our treasurer. The group was supposed to have a business meeting to discuss how we wanted to disperse the funds accumulating in our bank account. Because only Margaret and I were in attendance, I figured why bother, save it for next month. What's the rush? My mind was definitely back in my notebook, writing about my mother.
Margaret shoved a financial report across the table at me. I ignored it. I started drawing a picture of a big-eyed nerd in my notebook (another self-portrait, as they so often are). However, Margaret was clearly vibrating with urgency. After making her wait just the right amount of time, I stopped drawing and picked up the report.
“Did we ever make that donation to . . . ?” She nailed me with a stare, as if it were my fault that some payment didn't get made. I'm not the treasurer. Jeez.
“I don't have any recollection of that,” I said, shrugging. I opened my journal and started cross-hatching some shading around the nerd's bulging eyes.
“Well, then, this is all wrong,” Margaret said, snatching the paper back. She stuffed the papers in her bag. She sat in sullen silence for about thirty seconds. I practiced deep breathing and cross-hatching.
“How's your Mom?”
“The same, slipping away bit by bit,” I replied.
Margaret sat forward in her chair. “My mother was in a nursing home for five years, hooked to breathing machines and feeding tubes because my sister couldn't let her go.”
I tried to gauge the emotion I heard in her voice and couldn't tell if she was sad or glad that her mother had suffered for so long. All I could think of is, wow, I'm glad my sister is in France.
“Sounds terrible,” I said.
“You get along with your Mom?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah, now that she's lost her mind, she's actually pretty fun,” I smiled.
“You want to move to the desert, right?”
I nodded. It's no secret. She's heard me mention Arizona.
“Why don't you just go? Let your brother handle your Mom. Go live your life!”
I stared at her while I tried on difference responses in my mind. I had conflicting feelings. I wanted to defend my choice—eldest daughter, obligation, payback, yada yada—but none of that felt true. Knowing Margaret, she would have argued with my rationale. She's like me in that respect. She likes to stir the pot. I know a pot-stirrer when I see one.
After a long moment, I said what came to mind. “It's not about me.”
She reeled back in surprise. I could see her mind churning: How could it not be about us? That statement calls into question the nature of the universe and the purpose and meaning of existence. Aren't we the center of everything? Argh. I used to think so, but not any more.
Countering that narrative is the reason I have twenty-four years of journals a-moldering on five shelves in my living room. All yours, Sis!
