As the year stutters to a close, I slog through the rudiments of keeping my life together. I wash my frayed underwear and try not to notice the necklines of my fifteen-year old long-sleeved t-shirts stretch as wide as my shoulders. Everything I wear is stained, torn, frayed, or otherwise suitable only for the rag basket. I'm waiting. Will my rags last until it is time to move to a new climate? Or will I eventually be rotating among three t-shirts, two pairs of underpants, and a half dozen mismatched socks? On the bright side, I can (almost) fit into my ancient blue jeans.I often stand in line at the bank. As I wait and mill from foot to foot, ignoring the musak, I think about getting the call. Will I bolt out of the bank? Will I sigh and say, okay thanks for letting me know, I'll be there in twenty minutes? Will I finish my business and go home to take a long nap? What is the protocol?
I think about freedom a lot. Not freedom in a truth-love-justice-for-all kind of way. I mean, my freedom. To gain my freedom means losing my mother. This thought is an example of the cognitive dissonance I frequently experience. . . probably a major cause of my out-of-body tendencies. When I have this thought, my brain just sticks there, like a phonograph needle stuck in the groove of an old Monkees album. I can't get past it without slapping myself (figuratively speaking) in the face and reminding myself that I volunteered.
A few nights ago, Mom said she was ready for this to end. I assumed she meant life, not my visit.
“This is so boring,” she complained without much energy. I can only imagine how boring waiting for death might be, although I supposed that is what we all are doing from the moment we are born. I never used to be aware of it. As I have aged, I think about death in general a lot more, and my death in particular.
The waiting is especially excruciating for someone who can no longer process information. It must be disconcerting to be alive but trapped in a cage created by dementia. She can't knit, she can barely read. She can't follow M.A.S.H. reruns, except for the most slapstick of jokes. Words spoken by television actors no longer make sense. I focus on simple sentences, carefully constructed, familiar topics—my cat, mainly. My sister. The food. The weather.
Two nights ago, we sat together on the couch before going outside for the cigarette that would cause her brain to shut down for a while.
“I wonder if I would do better in a smaller care home,” she said.
I felt my heart skip. My stomach knotted.
“What do you think you would have at a care home that you don't have here?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“A care home is smaller, more like a real home,” I said. “A care home will probably be less expensive. You might get better food.”
“Yes.”
“On the other hand, you might not be able to keep all your furniture. Not all care homes will let you smoke. And you'll be stuck with whoever the other residents are . . . whether they can talk at all. Plus, I'm not sure the care home could manage your medications for you.” I pictured a bleak future consisting of many trips to the pharmacy for mirtazapine, atenolol, and oxycondone.
“Hm.”
“Why did this come up?” I wondered.
“I was thinking of Sunny's care home.” Sunny is Mom's friend who lives in a care home in southeast Portland.
“It would be great if you two could be together,” I said. “When I called them, they said they do not take smokers.”
She grimaced.
“We could get you the Patch.”
“It's time to go outside, isn't it?”
We went out for her evening cigarette. When we returned, her brain was an empty boat. She tugged off her red fleece smoking jacket and put it on the wing of her visitor's chair. I prompted her to take a swig of water. I checked her little fridge to see if it was time to replenish her gluten-free bread. I filled up her dish of snacks (tiny gluten-free peanutbutter crackers, one chocolate chip cookie). We sat together on the couch and watched the end of M.A.S.H. While we watched, I was aware of her shallow breathing.
She walked me to the back door at 7:02 pm. We sang “She'll be coming round the mountain” as we walked. I kissed her forehead at the back door and went outside to my car. She came to the window to see me off. This is our evening ritual. I turn my car around, and before I head down the hill, I lean out the window and look back. She gives me a peace sign, holding up two fingers and smiling. Even though I don't think she can see my arm hanging out the window, I return the peace sign and keep waving, driving away with one hand, until I'm around the bend, out of sight.
