Taking bathroom moments to reflect for me is dangerous. Washing dishes is another mind trap. My hands are occupied, leaving my mind free to roam. Roaming is not relaxing. Roaming is an invitation to reflect (self-awareness) and judge (self-obsession). What am I judging? Thanks for asking. Myself. You. The world and all its inhabitants. Life. Time and space. My mother and her slow demise.
The oh God moment emerges from a bone-deep certainty that everything is moments away from screeching to a halt. As if I knew the timing of the destruction of everything. Ha. There's an example of self-obsession for you. Everything is (probably) not imploding today. Therefore, my problem is my fear that everything is imploding.
Moreover, my fear of imminent implosion really applies to me, not so much to you, sorry. Of course, I would be sad if you imploded, but what I really care about is how implosion would affect me. What pain and suffering would I experience during said implosion? Oh, alas, alackaday. Poor me.
In movies, there's a moment sometimes when you can see the hero reach an emotional resolution. It's evident in the relaxation of the shoulders, a deep gaze, a nod, indicating an acceptance, a surrender to a new normal. Maybe there is a change of circumstance, a loss of something dear . . . the music swells, the montage fades to serenity, roll credits.
I have those moments sometimes: A sense of resignation and acceptance, a calm surrender to the strange limbo of my interrupted life. For a breath, I feel relief. Then I realize nothing has changed. She's still slowly dying, this could take years, and my life is not my own.
Life is not a movie. In my personal movie, the hero (me) goes home to her apartment and waits.
A few nights ago, Mom walked me to the back door after my visit. We perused the progress of two waist-high tomato plants planted in big clay pots. Someone had courageously planted one corn plant in another pot. Since then, Mom hasn't felt like walking much, not even when I told her the corn plant grew six inches overnight. I'm not keeping track of her decline, but my sense is that she's preferring her couch to walking about half the time now, when it used to be she would walk me to the door every evening. But it's not a linear decline; sometimes she surprises me with her alert conversation and peppy stride.
Death is gaslighting us both. Ha. There's my self-obsession again, making her death all about me. Her life really is imploding (in slow motion) but I'm the one choosing to suffer.
