Sometimes I'm an over-aider. Being a caregiver means being constantly aware of what needs to be done, what might need to be done, and what could have been done better. So I listen closely for the sound of Mom's walker, signaling that I should pop out of bed to help her to the bathroom. Or, if we're watching TV and she rearranges herself in her chair, I jump up to "help". And when I'm leaving for work, if I notice that her covers are slipping or her pillow seems to be in the "wrong" place (it's under her head, shouldn't that suffice?), I try to make adjustments without disturbing her. Invariably, of course, when I shift her covers she wakes up and says, "What are you doing? What's going on?"
"I was just rearranging things so you'd be warmer."
"Oh, thanks, but I was fine. Now the sheets are cold. . . but thanks."
"Would you like me to fix your pillow?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing, really, but it's not the way you usually like it so I just thought I'd . . ." and I gently lift her head so I can slide the pillow out and reposition it so it's not under her shoulders and she's lying on the bottom corner, not the center, and facing away from the bulk of the pillow, not into it "Oh! Thanks, you're right. That is better."
Recently I've been trying to let things be, to let her do what she's able to do without my interference. We share a very large bedroom that is arranged so that her bed is within a few feet of the bathroom and her favorite chair is directly across from her bed. That seems to be the "magic triangle" that makes her life manageable. When I hear her with her walker in the middle of the night and hear the tiny crash as she bumps into the bi-fold doors that lead into the bathroom, I remind myself that she's done this hundreds of times and will probably manage just fine without me. Once I sense that she's back in bed, I peek around the corner to reassure myself that she's under the covers and not sitting awkwardly half off the bed, trying to pull her robe around her for warmth, the way I found her once a week or two ago.
We have a recurring conversation nearly every evening. "Where do I sleep?" she asks. I point to her bed. "Oh, that makes sense, . . well, I think I'm ready to hit the sack." (My dad was a Marine. We also "make a head run" instead of going to the bathroom and there was a time when it wasn't unusual for us to stand up when the Marine's Hymn came on the radio or TV.)
Mom manages to get up on her own during the day, while I'm at work and before Linda arrives, but when I'm at home I can't sit on the couch watching her struggle with her walker as she tries to lift herself out of her chair or off of the bed. "I need a hand," she says. So I give her a boost and point her in the direction of the bathroom. I know to allow fifteen to twenty minutes (or more) before she's ready to come out, walker clanging, wondering where I am, where the bed is, what time it is, who does that cat belong to, where are we, is it time for bed?
And so it goes. Each situation calls for a quick decision--do I give her a helping hand? allow her to struggle a bit with something she can usually do? encourage her to carry on when she can? or jump in and take charge, if only to make myself feel better?
The one thing I know for certain is that she will thank me for my help, whether she needed it or not.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Crabbing in North Carolina
(the following was written in August of 2007)
Crabbing, as I discovered on a recent vacation, is a well-orchestrated ritual that, seen from the crab’s point of view, leaves something to be desired. Seen from the diner’s perspective, however (if one can get past the sight of blue pincers waving wildly as the crabs are tossed into boiling water) the endeavor is a sweet one, indeed.
On my first visit to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, my daughter, Alison, and her boyfriend, Ben, invited me to accompany them to Carratuck Sound, just down the road from his family’s Beach House. Alison, whose childhood experiences with seafood had been limited to the occasional shrimp cocktail or fast food filet on a bun, surprised me by efficiently assisting Ben as he loaded traps with fish heads and translucent skeletons of unidentifiable fish. They were large enough that they needed to be broken in halves, and occasionally thirds. She cringed, but she did it.
She and Ben then climbed down a short ladder into the Sound and walked a good distance from the pier through brackish waist-high water, placing the traps several yards apart, making certain that empty milk bottles were securely attached as markers to facilitate retrieval of the pots. The fiery sun dipped below the horizon as we walked back to the house, anticipating the next night’s meal. Would it be a good catch? What comprised a good catch? Would whatever crabs we caught be big enough to keep?
Approaching the pier the next day our conversation centered around what we might find. Alison and Ben retrieved the pots, carrying one in each hand as they walked through the water and tossed them unceremoniously onto the pier. My toes tingled as the crabs were dumped out of each pot into a cooler. Some invariably escaped, causing me to do a little jig to keep them from biting my toes. “Get that one!” I shrieked. “And that one! Acckk!” Hysteria crept into my voice as I snapped picture after picture of the entire unsettling event.
Ben used a customized two by four with a sawn out space that made measuring the crabs an efficiently frustrating process. Where I saw a cooler full of dinner, Ben and Alison saw “a couple of good ones, but lots of losers.” Anything that didn’t fill up the space in the two by four, tip to tip, failed the test and was tossed back into the sound. Good news for the crab, bad news for us.
Back at the house, a deep pot of water had been put on the stove to boil, seasoned with the only acceptable option, Old Bay Seasoning. As Ben’s dad, Bob, reached into the cooler that had served as a crab taxi from Sound to sink, I snapped a series of photos, distancing myself from the murder scene. Claws grabbed frantically toward other claws and I tried to resist thinking of families being torn asunder.
In fact, the crabs didn't seem to like each other much. It was every crab for himself: the larger ones seemed intent on attacking smaller ones even as they were dangled over the boiling water. And here’s the amazing part. The fairly innocuous sand-colored crabs, each sporting a bright blue claw (unless it’s already been lost in a previous skirmish) emerged, 11 minutes later, that lovely classic shade of red that I’ve always associated with crustaceans. Shrimp turn from light pink to dark pink, but blue to red? What else does that? I haven’t a clue.
Newspapers covered the sizeable table as we sat down to enjoy our feast. I was given a cursory lesson in crab deconstruction and began to see, or rather taste, the appeal of the entire enterprise. Crush this, grab that, squeeze here and voila! Delicate, succulent pieces of crab were mine for the taking.
Getting up close and personal with the critters in this sea-to-table event was a memorable experience and I look forward to doing it again sometime, but would I want to catch and kill my next serving of, oh, let’s say… beef tips… or pastrami? I don’t think so.
Crabbing, as I discovered on a recent vacation, is a well-orchestrated ritual that, seen from the crab’s point of view, leaves something to be desired. Seen from the diner’s perspective, however (if one can get past the sight of blue pincers waving wildly as the crabs are tossed into boiling water) the endeavor is a sweet one, indeed.
On my first visit to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, my daughter, Alison, and her boyfriend, Ben, invited me to accompany them to Carratuck Sound, just down the road from his family’s Beach House. Alison, whose childhood experiences with seafood had been limited to the occasional shrimp cocktail or fast food filet on a bun, surprised me by efficiently assisting Ben as he loaded traps with fish heads and translucent skeletons of unidentifiable fish. They were large enough that they needed to be broken in halves, and occasionally thirds. She cringed, but she did it.
She and Ben then climbed down a short ladder into the Sound and walked a good distance from the pier through brackish waist-high water, placing the traps several yards apart, making certain that empty milk bottles were securely attached as markers to facilitate retrieval of the pots. The fiery sun dipped below the horizon as we walked back to the house, anticipating the next night’s meal. Would it be a good catch? What comprised a good catch? Would whatever crabs we caught be big enough to keep?
Approaching the pier the next day our conversation centered around what we might find. Alison and Ben retrieved the pots, carrying one in each hand as they walked through the water and tossed them unceremoniously onto the pier. My toes tingled as the crabs were dumped out of each pot into a cooler. Some invariably escaped, causing me to do a little jig to keep them from biting my toes. “Get that one!” I shrieked. “And that one! Acckk!” Hysteria crept into my voice as I snapped picture after picture of the entire unsettling event.
Ben used a customized two by four with a sawn out space that made measuring the crabs an efficiently frustrating process. Where I saw a cooler full of dinner, Ben and Alison saw “a couple of good ones, but lots of losers.” Anything that didn’t fill up the space in the two by four, tip to tip, failed the test and was tossed back into the sound. Good news for the crab, bad news for us.
Back at the house, a deep pot of water had been put on the stove to boil, seasoned with the only acceptable option, Old Bay Seasoning. As Ben’s dad, Bob, reached into the cooler that had served as a crab taxi from Sound to sink, I snapped a series of photos, distancing myself from the murder scene. Claws grabbed frantically toward other claws and I tried to resist thinking of families being torn asunder.
In fact, the crabs didn't seem to like each other much. It was every crab for himself: the larger ones seemed intent on attacking smaller ones even as they were dangled over the boiling water. And here’s the amazing part. The fairly innocuous sand-colored crabs, each sporting a bright blue claw (unless it’s already been lost in a previous skirmish) emerged, 11 minutes later, that lovely classic shade of red that I’ve always associated with crustaceans. Shrimp turn from light pink to dark pink, but blue to red? What else does that? I haven’t a clue.
Newspapers covered the sizeable table as we sat down to enjoy our feast. I was given a cursory lesson in crab deconstruction and began to see, or rather taste, the appeal of the entire enterprise. Crush this, grab that, squeeze here and voila! Delicate, succulent pieces of crab were mine for the taking.
Getting up close and personal with the critters in this sea-to-table event was a memorable experience and I look forward to doing it again sometime, but would I want to catch and kill my next serving of, oh, let’s say… beef tips… or pastrami? I don’t think so.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Getting High
August 08, 2007
Eating a bite of the most chocolatey of all chocolate cakes, surrounded by family and friends, it occurs to me that I am one lucky broad. It’s my birthday and I’m vacationing on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, enjoying a self-indulgent week away from the responsibilities of managing a college bookstore and caring for my mother.
My birthday cake is topped by a single wishing candle because sixty would set the house on fire. Passing smiles and cake around the table, we chat lazily about a number of things, including a brief discussion of “what I’d like to do someday.” Buoyed by the good will and humor surrounding me, I idly mention that I’d like to go parasailing. I neglect to add “. . . maybe . . . someday . . . in fact, I may be talking without really thinking about what I’m saying. “
That was Friday night. By Sunday afternoon, I’m dangling over Maryland’s Currituck Sound at the end of a 1200 foot tether roughly 1/10th the diameter of what I would have used, had I been put in charge of such things. Happily, I’m not dangling alone. My daughter, Alison, who orchestrated this alarming turn of events, is in the harness next to me, laughing and snapping photos and singing a lively rendition of Happy Birthday to youuuuuu.
We are amazed at how quiet it is far above the boat and the water and the general hub-bub of life on the sound. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect the silence. We can talk without raising our voices--we whisper and can still hear one another. As we swoosh through the air, we tip back in our padded harnesses to gaze at the multi-colored panels of nylon rising above and behind us. The effect, if we don’t look down, is of sitting on a canopied porch swing in someone’s backyard, minus the tall glass of iced tea and ground under our feet. I love the sensations—the cool air, the sea scent, the unfamiliar lightness of being. I’m glad the outfitters were set up for double and triple harnessing options. I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.
We wave wildly at the passengers on the boat , including my daughter’s boyfriend who is taking photos of us way up here while we take photos of him way down there. “Hey, Benjamin!" we yell into the wind, "You’ve got to try this!”
There are two other groups on board—one couple who has already had their turn and a man and two boys awaiting theirs. We’d watched the couple who went ahead of us as they lifted off the back of the boat and into the sky. We laughed nervously as the boat’s crew of two handled the lines and the boat and maneuvered the parasail to varying heights, ending the ride by dipping the surprised couple into the sound before reeling them in by means of a winch and pulley system to land, standing up, on the same platform from which they’d taken off. Watching the process prior to our own take-off had lessened my anxiety considerably.
Alison helps me get oriented as we hang languidly over the sound. We pick out the area surrounding the beach house and the place where we plan to have a drink when we get back on land. We can see the thin line of a pier in the distance and a number of birds flying below us, swooping in to score a lunch of fresh fish. The shoreline stretches out in wiggly map-like lines on both sides of the Outer Banks. I’m amazed to see the proximity of ocean and sound from this vantage point.
As with any event in which my senses are fully engaged, I have no awareness of time passing. I could happily hang out, literally, a very long time—perhaps a day or two? But we become aware of the slowing of the boat and the tug of the tow-rope as we begin our descent. We laugh and scream as we’re dunked in the water like teabags, gasping at the splash of waves and salt and the craziness of it all. We drift toward the boat, exhilarated. Alison executes a perfect stand-up landing while I do a sort of crazy dance with the harnesses.
Hugging and laughing, we start to make plans for next year, and the next, and the one after that.
Eating a bite of the most chocolatey of all chocolate cakes, surrounded by family and friends, it occurs to me that I am one lucky broad. It’s my birthday and I’m vacationing on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, enjoying a self-indulgent week away from the responsibilities of managing a college bookstore and caring for my mother.
My birthday cake is topped by a single wishing candle because sixty would set the house on fire. Passing smiles and cake around the table, we chat lazily about a number of things, including a brief discussion of “what I’d like to do someday.” Buoyed by the good will and humor surrounding me, I idly mention that I’d like to go parasailing. I neglect to add “. . . maybe . . . someday . . . in fact, I may be talking without really thinking about what I’m saying. “
That was Friday night. By Sunday afternoon, I’m dangling over Maryland’s Currituck Sound at the end of a 1200 foot tether roughly 1/10th the diameter of what I would have used, had I been put in charge of such things. Happily, I’m not dangling alone. My daughter, Alison, who orchestrated this alarming turn of events, is in the harness next to me, laughing and snapping photos and singing a lively rendition of Happy Birthday to youuuuuu.
We are amazed at how quiet it is far above the boat and the water and the general hub-bub of life on the sound. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect the silence. We can talk without raising our voices--we whisper and can still hear one another. As we swoosh through the air, we tip back in our padded harnesses to gaze at the multi-colored panels of nylon rising above and behind us. The effect, if we don’t look down, is of sitting on a canopied porch swing in someone’s backyard, minus the tall glass of iced tea and ground under our feet. I love the sensations—the cool air, the sea scent, the unfamiliar lightness of being. I’m glad the outfitters were set up for double and triple harnessing options. I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.
We wave wildly at the passengers on the boat , including my daughter’s boyfriend who is taking photos of us way up here while we take photos of him way down there. “Hey, Benjamin!" we yell into the wind, "You’ve got to try this!”
There are two other groups on board—one couple who has already had their turn and a man and two boys awaiting theirs. We’d watched the couple who went ahead of us as they lifted off the back of the boat and into the sky. We laughed nervously as the boat’s crew of two handled the lines and the boat and maneuvered the parasail to varying heights, ending the ride by dipping the surprised couple into the sound before reeling them in by means of a winch and pulley system to land, standing up, on the same platform from which they’d taken off. Watching the process prior to our own take-off had lessened my anxiety considerably.
Alison helps me get oriented as we hang languidly over the sound. We pick out the area surrounding the beach house and the place where we plan to have a drink when we get back on land. We can see the thin line of a pier in the distance and a number of birds flying below us, swooping in to score a lunch of fresh fish. The shoreline stretches out in wiggly map-like lines on both sides of the Outer Banks. I’m amazed to see the proximity of ocean and sound from this vantage point.
As with any event in which my senses are fully engaged, I have no awareness of time passing. I could happily hang out, literally, a very long time—perhaps a day or two? But we become aware of the slowing of the boat and the tug of the tow-rope as we begin our descent. We laugh and scream as we’re dunked in the water like teabags, gasping at the splash of waves and salt and the craziness of it all. We drift toward the boat, exhilarated. Alison executes a perfect stand-up landing while I do a sort of crazy dance with the harnesses.
Hugging and laughing, we start to make plans for next year, and the next, and the one after that.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Clues
Mom and I spend a lot of evenings watching TV together. If you ever need a tutorial in the various story lines of The Golden Girls, Andy Griffith, Leave it to Beaver or Murder She Wrote, I'm your gal. We've seen them all, multiple times, along with occasional episodes of Law and Order. Mom likes Jack McCoy's beautiful eyes. So do I.
Unfortunately, the line between our lives and the lives being depicted on these shows is beginning to blur. Last night, as we watched Matlock (“That’s Andy Griffith? When did he get so old?”) Mom noticed a bit of cookie left on her tray. I started to pick it up but she stopped me, saying, "Don't get rid of that. It may be evidence." I thought she was joking. She wasn't.
"Evidence for what, Mom?"
"The murder that they're investigating. I think we should save that and give it to them."
My heart sank. She didn't want to be convinced that there was no connection between the crumb and the plot of the show. I changed channels during the next commercial to divert her attention. This is a dilemma I face more each day-do I let go of facts in the interest of avoiding conflict or do I insist on getting her to recognize the difference between fantasy and reality?
When Mom first started forgetting significant events (and making up others) I couldn't allow myself to give in. I felt that it was important for her to stay firmly rooted in reality. “No, Mom, you’ve never gone skydiving.” Or, “I’m pretty sure you haven’t met Keanu Reeves.” Or, "Dad died several years ago. He's buried in Denver. We live here, in Arkansas." As time goes on, however, I'm inclined to let her “win”, knowing that in a few minutes the discussion will be forgotten.
But when she asks my name or becomes confused about our relationship, I'm compelled to give her time to consider the possibilities. I'm not prepared to be forgotten. "Who are your kids?” I ask, “Do I look old enough to be your mother?" Much to my relief, she eventually remembers. "You're Sandy! My baby! How could I forget that?"
When I heard her struggling with her walker last night I got up to help her to the bathroom. As I tucked her in she kissed my hand, pressed it to her check and said, “Oh, Sandy, what would I do without you?” But this morning, as I straightened her covers, she opened her eyes and said, “Thank you—I was cold!” then paused and said, “What’s your name?” I moved closer and held her hand. I waited. She looked at me, shuffling through her mental files, “Oh! Sandy! It’s you!”
Yes, Mom, it’s me.
Unfortunately, the line between our lives and the lives being depicted on these shows is beginning to blur. Last night, as we watched Matlock (“That’s Andy Griffith? When did he get so old?”) Mom noticed a bit of cookie left on her tray. I started to pick it up but she stopped me, saying, "Don't get rid of that. It may be evidence." I thought she was joking. She wasn't.
"Evidence for what, Mom?"
"The murder that they're investigating. I think we should save that and give it to them."
My heart sank. She didn't want to be convinced that there was no connection between the crumb and the plot of the show. I changed channels during the next commercial to divert her attention. This is a dilemma I face more each day-do I let go of facts in the interest of avoiding conflict or do I insist on getting her to recognize the difference between fantasy and reality?
When Mom first started forgetting significant events (and making up others) I couldn't allow myself to give in. I felt that it was important for her to stay firmly rooted in reality. “No, Mom, you’ve never gone skydiving.” Or, “I’m pretty sure you haven’t met Keanu Reeves.” Or, "Dad died several years ago. He's buried in Denver. We live here, in Arkansas." As time goes on, however, I'm inclined to let her “win”, knowing that in a few minutes the discussion will be forgotten.
But when she asks my name or becomes confused about our relationship, I'm compelled to give her time to consider the possibilities. I'm not prepared to be forgotten. "Who are your kids?” I ask, “Do I look old enough to be your mother?" Much to my relief, she eventually remembers. "You're Sandy! My baby! How could I forget that?"
When I heard her struggling with her walker last night I got up to help her to the bathroom. As I tucked her in she kissed my hand, pressed it to her check and said, “Oh, Sandy, what would I do without you?” But this morning, as I straightened her covers, she opened her eyes and said, “Thank you—I was cold!” then paused and said, “What’s your name?” I moved closer and held her hand. I waited. She looked at me, shuffling through her mental files, “Oh! Sandy! It’s you!”
Yes, Mom, it’s me.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Rings
1. Pee.
2. Wash my hands.
3. Brush my teeth.
4. Check to see if mom’s still breathing.
That’s been my morning ritual since the day Mom moved in with me. If I happen to leave for work without checking on her, perhaps because I’ve been side-tracked by the cat or my attention has been diverted by a phone call, I turn the car around and go back home. I park, enter the house noiselessly, open the door to her bedroom and pause, waiting to hear a breath or see the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. She sleeps with her head tossed back, mouth open, lip sunken against the toothless gum of her lower jaw. Reassured, I retrace my steps and leave the house.
My one regret about asking mom to live with me is that I didn’t do it sooner, while Dad was still alive, so that I could be caring for him, too. There were many reasons why it wasn’t feasible, but I know they would have enjoyed spending time together with me as their caretaker. I would have made them hearty breakfasts and sinful desserts. I’ve convinced myself that I could have made it work.
Dad’s buried in a military cemetery in Denver. My brothers and I have always assumed that Mom will be buried there, too. Dad’s headstone has a place for her name and birth/death dates. Recently, though, Mom has mentioned that she feels there’s no reason to “ship her,” as she puts it, back to Denver. The cemetery that adjoins the small lake where we sometimes go to eat lunch appeals to her.
“But Mom,” I say, “we thought you’d want to be with Dad.”
“I’m not worried about that. We’ll find each other in heaven no matter where you put me. I like this town. I’d be perfectly happy to stay here."
During one of these discussions, she removes her wedding rings and hands them to me. “Try these on.” She's worn her rings for sixty-plus years. At some point she had her engagement and wedding rings joined with a bit of silver solder to keep them aligned. I try them on. As they slip neatly over my knuckle she smiles.
“I want you to have them. I’ve always expected they’d be yours someday.”
“Yes, but not yet,” I say. “I want you to wear them until . . . as long as . . .”
She nods. “Okay, but don’t wait until they have to pry them off my cold dead hand,” she says with a chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, playing along, “I promise I’ll slip them off while you’re still warm.”
“Well, good,” she says. “That’s just what I had in mind.”
2. Wash my hands.
3. Brush my teeth.
4. Check to see if mom’s still breathing.
That’s been my morning ritual since the day Mom moved in with me. If I happen to leave for work without checking on her, perhaps because I’ve been side-tracked by the cat or my attention has been diverted by a phone call, I turn the car around and go back home. I park, enter the house noiselessly, open the door to her bedroom and pause, waiting to hear a breath or see the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. She sleeps with her head tossed back, mouth open, lip sunken against the toothless gum of her lower jaw. Reassured, I retrace my steps and leave the house.
My one regret about asking mom to live with me is that I didn’t do it sooner, while Dad was still alive, so that I could be caring for him, too. There were many reasons why it wasn’t feasible, but I know they would have enjoyed spending time together with me as their caretaker. I would have made them hearty breakfasts and sinful desserts. I’ve convinced myself that I could have made it work.
Dad’s buried in a military cemetery in Denver. My brothers and I have always assumed that Mom will be buried there, too. Dad’s headstone has a place for her name and birth/death dates. Recently, though, Mom has mentioned that she feels there’s no reason to “ship her,” as she puts it, back to Denver. The cemetery that adjoins the small lake where we sometimes go to eat lunch appeals to her.
“But Mom,” I say, “we thought you’d want to be with Dad.”
“I’m not worried about that. We’ll find each other in heaven no matter where you put me. I like this town. I’d be perfectly happy to stay here."
During one of these discussions, she removes her wedding rings and hands them to me. “Try these on.” She's worn her rings for sixty-plus years. At some point she had her engagement and wedding rings joined with a bit of silver solder to keep them aligned. I try them on. As they slip neatly over my knuckle she smiles.
“I want you to have them. I’ve always expected they’d be yours someday.”
“Yes, but not yet,” I say. “I want you to wear them until . . . as long as . . .”
She nods. “Okay, but don’t wait until they have to pry them off my cold dead hand,” she says with a chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, playing along, “I promise I’ll slip them off while you’re still warm.”
“Well, good,” she says. “That’s just what I had in mind.”
The Trip Home
Leaving the beach house where my mother and I have been vacationing with my daughter Alison and her friends, I’m overcome with gratitude that Mom has found the energy to enjoy this visit to the Outer Banks. Alison and I walk arm in arm from the house to the car while the young men escort Mom. She leans heavily but happily on their arms as they help her down the drive-way. When we reach the car, we exchange farewell hugs, shed a few tears, wave, wave, wave and we’re on our way.
As I ease the car out of the drive-way, I begin to deal with the fact that we’re facing a 1000 mile return trip to Arkansas. The drive out was long but satisfying and although I feel certain we’ll enjoy a good trip back, the prospect is daunting. At eighty-nine, Mom suffers from the physical symptoms of congestive heart failure, bad knees and an erratic memory. Fortunately, her joie de vivre is alive and well
I sometimes have difficulty reconciling my mother as she is now with the woman who raised my brothers and me. Since inviting Mom to move in with me nearly three years ago, our mother/daughter relationship has shifted. Occasionally, as I’m tucking her in to bed, she’ll thank me for being “such a great Mom.” If I give her a moment to reconsider, she’ll correct herself. “Oh, you’re not my mother. You’re my daughter. And a good one!” But in many ways, I am the mother to my mother. I help her dress, I feed her, I try to find ways to keep her entertained. I remember my brother and his wife talking about the challenges of having her mother living with them after she’d had a debilitating stroke. As they listed the things they did for her, I commented, “Well, that sounds just like raising a kid!” Alison was in elementary school at the time. My brother gently reminded me that the rewards were very different. It’s taken me this long to understand fully what he meant.
The change in my mother, other than her memory lapses, is primarily physical—she is fragile, bent, unsteady on her feet. The memory that stays with me is of her in her early fifties—generously proportioned, comfortably padded—an enthusiastic first year music major at the University of Colorado. She played violin and viola in orchestras and quartets, relishing her relationships with other students and fellow musicians. She no longer has the strength to play her violin (she has a collection of twenty-five in various sizes) but the beauty of classical music can still move her to tears.
After three and a half years Mom dropped out of college to care for my dad, a double leg amputee who was in failing health. I too dropped out of college after three and a half years, but only because I’d lost interest and—as far as I can remember--no one tried to talk me out of it. Under different circumstances, this might have become an interesting topic of conversation during our drive, but I’m reluctant to bring up any issues that might tax Mom’s memory and my patience. So we stick to comments about the weather, the scenery, family comings and goings, and the fun of being together on this trip.
I choose an alternate route for this leg of our trip that looks as though it will meander along the coast. It doesn’t. The two lane road twists and turns through scenery similar to what we enjoyed on the drive out, but never gives us a glimpse of the shore and is devoid of towns, gas stations, and restaurants. As we drive into the early evening, Mom slips into familiar road-trip chatter. “Don’t you love all these trees?” I agree that they’re beautiful. “So much nicer to look at than billboards.”
We’ve been enjoying mile after mile of untarnished scenery. Oaks, maples, mimosas (“Those pretty pink blossoms. What are they? Don’t you just love them? So fluffy! I don’t believe I ever seen those before!”) She comments on them in much the same way every time we see them. I’m becoming used to and tolerant of the repetition. The connections that used to monitor Mom’s memory have gone slack. She remains connected to and interested in events taking place around her but acknowledges and is frustrated by her unreliable memory. The phrase, “I’ve probably already asked you a hundred times, but…“precedes many of her questions. I try to reassure her that I don’t mind, but I wonder if she sometimes hears a lack of conviction in my voice.
As the miles rolls past, our stomachs begin to growl and the gas tank creeps toward empty. I wonder briefly how we would manage if it became necessary to spend the night huddled together in the car on this lonely stretch of road. I don’t voice my concern to Mom, but I’m relieved when we round a corner and spot a two-pump station that’s getting ready to close. The attendant is friendly, jovial, and happy to offer directions to the only restaurant for miles around.
“You won’t find anything here, but if you go on the way you’re goin’
you’ll come across Mattern’s. Good place. Only thing between here and
where you’re headed. You’ll find it.” And we do. It appears to be the sort of place where regulars fill most of the tables and everyone orders “the usual.” Mom and I are watched closely as we make our way to a table.
“This one okay?” I ask.
“Sure. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me!”
I help her into the booth, stash her walker out of the aisle and retrieve a small pillow from the car. I grab a blanket too, just in case her legs get cold, which they always do. Mom’s circulation or lack thereof leaves her “freezing” regardless of the ambient temperature. Keeping her comfortable is a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company.
The waitress (“Hi! I’m Margie!”) is friendly and patient. After scanning the menu, Mom defers to me.
“What should I have?”
“Would you like a baked potato?”
“Sure! That sounds good!”
“Or would you prefer mashed this time?”
“Hmmm . . . mashed would be fine. Or baked. Whatever you think. What are you having?”
I order grilled fish for her, with a side of mashed potatoes “Do you think I could have gravy with that?” she asks. I indulge in a steak sandwich and some delicious little morsels called corn somethings which appear to be creamed corn that has been rolled in breading and dropped in hot fat. Southern cooking at its finest. Mom mentions how tasty the mashed potatoes are and sends her compliments to the chef, letting me know that they’re every bit as good as the ones I make (which, more often than not, come straight out of the Kroger deli).
An hour or so after leaving the restaurant, we’re ready to stop for the night but I realize that I haven’t seen any billboards promising $39 for a single! Free hi-speed internet! Continental Breakfast! One of our forays down yet another unmarked exit eventually results in the discovery of a semi-seedy motel. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be picky. Mom doesn’t notice the peeling paint, the dirty grout in the bathroom, the stains on the carpet. She’s delighted that we’ve found a place to sleep (“This is cute, isn’t it!”) After a lengthy visit to the bathroom and a few appreciative comments about the “art” on the walls, she’s ready for bed. Although I’ve been looking forward to a shower, I decide to skip it. The towels and my patience are worn tissue thin. I rinse off with a sorry excuse for a washcloth and sink gratefully into bed.
The next morning we’re both ready to hit the road early. I pick up snacks when we stop to fill the tank and we munch happily on some flaky pastries while we listen to an old tape of songs from “Your Hit Parade.” We try to sing along with songs from the fifties and laugh at some of the ridiculous lyrics. After a time I tune into a radio station that plays contemporary music and wait for mom’s reaction. As long as we stick with easy listening stations, she seems content to tap out the rhythm on her knee or “direct” the music with a gentle wave of her hand. When the news comes on, I turn off the radio and we travel in a comfortable silence, lost in our own thoughts.
We’re driving along a stretch of highway lined with blooming trees and hills covered in wildflowers when a spectacular vista opens up before us as we crest a hill. It’s late afternoon. Rays of sun are dispersed around and through a gathering of cumulous clouds, a phenomenon we’ve often referred to as “Miracle Light.”
“So beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispers. “It makes me want to sing.” And in her soft, quivering voice, she begins, “Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. . . “ She stops. My eyes have filled with tears. I reach for her hand. “I’m just a sentimental old fool,” she says. We smile at each other. “Me too, Mama,” I say. “Me, too.”
As I ease the car out of the drive-way, I begin to deal with the fact that we’re facing a 1000 mile return trip to Arkansas. The drive out was long but satisfying and although I feel certain we’ll enjoy a good trip back, the prospect is daunting. At eighty-nine, Mom suffers from the physical symptoms of congestive heart failure, bad knees and an erratic memory. Fortunately, her joie de vivre is alive and well
I sometimes have difficulty reconciling my mother as she is now with the woman who raised my brothers and me. Since inviting Mom to move in with me nearly three years ago, our mother/daughter relationship has shifted. Occasionally, as I’m tucking her in to bed, she’ll thank me for being “such a great Mom.” If I give her a moment to reconsider, she’ll correct herself. “Oh, you’re not my mother. You’re my daughter. And a good one!” But in many ways, I am the mother to my mother. I help her dress, I feed her, I try to find ways to keep her entertained. I remember my brother and his wife talking about the challenges of having her mother living with them after she’d had a debilitating stroke. As they listed the things they did for her, I commented, “Well, that sounds just like raising a kid!” Alison was in elementary school at the time. My brother gently reminded me that the rewards were very different. It’s taken me this long to understand fully what he meant.
The change in my mother, other than her memory lapses, is primarily physical—she is fragile, bent, unsteady on her feet. The memory that stays with me is of her in her early fifties—generously proportioned, comfortably padded—an enthusiastic first year music major at the University of Colorado. She played violin and viola in orchestras and quartets, relishing her relationships with other students and fellow musicians. She no longer has the strength to play her violin (she has a collection of twenty-five in various sizes) but the beauty of classical music can still move her to tears.
After three and a half years Mom dropped out of college to care for my dad, a double leg amputee who was in failing health. I too dropped out of college after three and a half years, but only because I’d lost interest and—as far as I can remember--no one tried to talk me out of it. Under different circumstances, this might have become an interesting topic of conversation during our drive, but I’m reluctant to bring up any issues that might tax Mom’s memory and my patience. So we stick to comments about the weather, the scenery, family comings and goings, and the fun of being together on this trip.
I choose an alternate route for this leg of our trip that looks as though it will meander along the coast. It doesn’t. The two lane road twists and turns through scenery similar to what we enjoyed on the drive out, but never gives us a glimpse of the shore and is devoid of towns, gas stations, and restaurants. As we drive into the early evening, Mom slips into familiar road-trip chatter. “Don’t you love all these trees?” I agree that they’re beautiful. “So much nicer to look at than billboards.”
We’ve been enjoying mile after mile of untarnished scenery. Oaks, maples, mimosas (“Those pretty pink blossoms. What are they? Don’t you just love them? So fluffy! I don’t believe I ever seen those before!”) She comments on them in much the same way every time we see them. I’m becoming used to and tolerant of the repetition. The connections that used to monitor Mom’s memory have gone slack. She remains connected to and interested in events taking place around her but acknowledges and is frustrated by her unreliable memory. The phrase, “I’ve probably already asked you a hundred times, but…“precedes many of her questions. I try to reassure her that I don’t mind, but I wonder if she sometimes hears a lack of conviction in my voice.
As the miles rolls past, our stomachs begin to growl and the gas tank creeps toward empty. I wonder briefly how we would manage if it became necessary to spend the night huddled together in the car on this lonely stretch of road. I don’t voice my concern to Mom, but I’m relieved when we round a corner and spot a two-pump station that’s getting ready to close. The attendant is friendly, jovial, and happy to offer directions to the only restaurant for miles around.
“You won’t find anything here, but if you go on the way you’re goin’
you’ll come across Mattern’s. Good place. Only thing between here and
where you’re headed. You’ll find it.” And we do. It appears to be the sort of place where regulars fill most of the tables and everyone orders “the usual.” Mom and I are watched closely as we make our way to a table.
“This one okay?” I ask.
“Sure. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me!”
I help her into the booth, stash her walker out of the aisle and retrieve a small pillow from the car. I grab a blanket too, just in case her legs get cold, which they always do. Mom’s circulation or lack thereof leaves her “freezing” regardless of the ambient temperature. Keeping her comfortable is a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company.
The waitress (“Hi! I’m Margie!”) is friendly and patient. After scanning the menu, Mom defers to me.
“What should I have?”
“Would you like a baked potato?”
“Sure! That sounds good!”
“Or would you prefer mashed this time?”
“Hmmm . . . mashed would be fine. Or baked. Whatever you think. What are you having?”
I order grilled fish for her, with a side of mashed potatoes “Do you think I could have gravy with that?” she asks. I indulge in a steak sandwich and some delicious little morsels called corn somethings which appear to be creamed corn that has been rolled in breading and dropped in hot fat. Southern cooking at its finest. Mom mentions how tasty the mashed potatoes are and sends her compliments to the chef, letting me know that they’re every bit as good as the ones I make (which, more often than not, come straight out of the Kroger deli).
An hour or so after leaving the restaurant, we’re ready to stop for the night but I realize that I haven’t seen any billboards promising $39 for a single! Free hi-speed internet! Continental Breakfast! One of our forays down yet another unmarked exit eventually results in the discovery of a semi-seedy motel. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be picky. Mom doesn’t notice the peeling paint, the dirty grout in the bathroom, the stains on the carpet. She’s delighted that we’ve found a place to sleep (“This is cute, isn’t it!”) After a lengthy visit to the bathroom and a few appreciative comments about the “art” on the walls, she’s ready for bed. Although I’ve been looking forward to a shower, I decide to skip it. The towels and my patience are worn tissue thin. I rinse off with a sorry excuse for a washcloth and sink gratefully into bed.
The next morning we’re both ready to hit the road early. I pick up snacks when we stop to fill the tank and we munch happily on some flaky pastries while we listen to an old tape of songs from “Your Hit Parade.” We try to sing along with songs from the fifties and laugh at some of the ridiculous lyrics. After a time I tune into a radio station that plays contemporary music and wait for mom’s reaction. As long as we stick with easy listening stations, she seems content to tap out the rhythm on her knee or “direct” the music with a gentle wave of her hand. When the news comes on, I turn off the radio and we travel in a comfortable silence, lost in our own thoughts.
We’re driving along a stretch of highway lined with blooming trees and hills covered in wildflowers when a spectacular vista opens up before us as we crest a hill. It’s late afternoon. Rays of sun are dispersed around and through a gathering of cumulous clouds, a phenomenon we’ve often referred to as “Miracle Light.”
“So beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispers. “It makes me want to sing.” And in her soft, quivering voice, she begins, “Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. . . “ She stops. My eyes have filled with tears. I reach for her hand. “I’m just a sentimental old fool,” she says. We smile at each other. “Me too, Mama,” I say. “Me, too.”
Road Trip
Fifty miles into a two thousand mile trip I have responded to Mom’s question, “What are those crops?” with this answer, “I think (I’m pretty sure, they might be) soybeans” roughly a half dozen times. My mother’s voice remains even, light, inquisitive while my voice rises slightly, getting tighter, more harried with each response. I’m already beginning to question the wisdom of this spontaneous journey through three states, Arkansas to North Carolina. But since a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, that’s how I approach this weeklong vacation--one step at a time.
“Mom, I’m thinking it might be fun to jump in the car and drive to the coast to visit Alison and Ben.”
“Okay.”
“Does that sound like fun?”
“Sure! Sounds great! Do I get to go?”
“Well, would you like to? Do you think you’re up to it?”
“Sure! Why not?”
Why not, indeed. A week earlier I had awakened to find her lying on her bedroom floor, having fallen after getting up and getting herself dressed. She was in pain for several days and while x-rays showed no broken bones, the arthritis in her spine, hips and tailbone is extensive. I question the wisdom of asking her to sit in a car for two and a half days each way. I worry about problems with circulation, confusion, exhaustion. At eighty-nine, she suffers from the usual age-related maladies tempered with an extraordinarily cheerful spirit. She has spent the last three half years since she moved in with me sitting in her chair day after day reading and watching television while I’m at work. I decide it’s worth the potential risks to give us both the gift of a week with my daughter--no expectations, no TV, no routine.
I make hasty plans for leaving, enlisting a friend to check on the cat, water the plants, keep an eye on the house. Within a few days we are on our way. We leave late on a Friday afternoon. I know there’s a chance I’ll need to stop every two hours or so to give Mom a break from sitting still but as it turns out our breaks segue nicely with our fuel stops.
As the miles float past, her questions continue to be repetitive and I wonder how long my patience will hold out. I’ve brought along books on tape and CDs of music that I know we will both enjoy but I’m saving them for the next day when we’ll be in the car for a good ten hours. I soon discover that the long silences (I can drive for hours without saying a word) inspire mom to ruminate on what we are doing, where we are going and why.
“Remind me of where we’re going. Will we be spending the night at home?”
“We’re going to visit Alison and Ben in North Carolina. We should be there by day after tomorrow.”
“What day is it today?”
“Friday. It’s about 8:00. We’ll stop soon to spend the night, then we’ll drive all day tomorrow and get there sometime Sunday.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll try to remember. Now, what’s planted in all these fields? Isn’t it beautiful!”
“They’re soybeans, Mom. Same as that last field we passed, remember?”
“I wouldn’t know a soybean if you put it in my hand. What does one do with a soybean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re used lots of ways. Tofu, for example, is made from soybeans.”
“Tofu? Really? From soybeans? Farmers must be so busy this time of year, with all these crops.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are. Then, in the Fall, they’ll harvest the crops and the whole process will start again in the Spring.”
“Yes, that’s how it works, isn’t it. I’m glad we’re seeing them now, when everything is so green. Now look over here—what are these crops do you think?”
“Soybeans, Mom. Soybeans.”
We find a non-descript hotel for the night. Mom’s exhausted and hungry so I make a quick trip out for food. The only thing close to the hotel is a quick stop convenience store next door and the only things they have to eat are suspiciously soggy-looking pre-packaged tuna or chicken salad sandwiches and a few hotdogs that look as if they have spent far too long on the hot-dog rollers. I buy one anyway, along with a bottle of chocolate milk and a small bag of chips. Back at the hotel, Mom has changed into her nightgown and reaches gratefully for the chocolate milk. She’s not as thrilled with the hot dog, which we split—my half with mustard, hers without. We’re traveling on a tight budget, but I may have reached a new low with this particular meal.
I’m too wound up to sleep so I ask her if she’ll mind if I watch a little TV.
“Go ahead. It won’t bother me—but do you really want to listen to it in Spanish?”
“Spanish? What makes you think it’s in Spanish?”
“Aren’t we in Mexico? Won’t the TV be in Spanish?”
I have no idea how Mexico has become our destination. “No, Mom. We’re not in Mexico. We’re in Tennessee, on our way to visit Alison in North Carolina.”
Her face brightens. “Oh, yes! I’m certainly looking forward to seeing her.”
“Me too, Mom. Let’s go to bed and treat ourselves to a nice meal tomorrow.”
We’re sharing a double bed that’s been made, it seems, with a twin size top sheet. I give the majority of the covers to her—the room is so muggy I have no desire to sleep with anything more than a sheet—and she quickly falls asleep.
In the morning I get up and begin to pack quietly but she opens her eyes, smiles, asks where we are and by 7:30 we’re in the car and headed down the road.
Once we hit the interstate, I’m reluctant to stop other than to pick up food at a drive-thru so we settle for a breakfast sandwich for me, orange juice and scrambled eggs for her. She eats all of her meals on her lap at home, and usually uses a plastic fork, so she’s comfortable with our make-shift in-car picnic.
I pull out the book on tape that I’ve brought along as a surprise. She’s delighted to discover that it’s Bill Bryson reading one of our favorite books, A Walk in the Woods. His story of walking significant portions of the Appalachian Trail with his sidekick, Katz, seems especially appropriate as our route takes us through many of the areas he references. His dry delivery is the perfect counterpoint to his often hysterical prose. We laugh and giggle and are completely enthralled. The miles roll by.
Rest stops are relatively brief, thanks to Mom’s walker and our temporary Handicapped Parking Permit. I notice that people go out of their way to be friendly and accommodating when they encounter us. They hold doors, smile, wait patiently, and some comment softly that I’m blessed to still have my mom. I smile and agree. Some engage in brief conversations about the recent loss of their mothers or how far they live from their parents. When Mom spies a babe in arms, she always, always stops to smile and coo and reach out to touch a chubby arm or knee. Parents are patient and children offer shy smiles. We’re enjoying ourselves and I’m gratified that the trip is going well.
We listen to one of Garrison Keillor’s books on tape. We laugh at his stories and sing along when he sings “What a Wonderful World.” He and Bill Bryson keep me sane mile after mile.
The rolling hills of Tennessee and North Carolina are neatly bisected by interstate 40, the majority of which is divided by a green belt-way studded with fields of wildflowers. North Carolina in particular is strewn with spectacular displays of lilies, orange, deep red, yellow—all planted thoughtfully in lush parings with smaller flowers of contrasting hues. I am told by a shopkeeper at a craft shop that Lady Bird Johnson was the guiding force behind the beautification effort. We are effusively appreciative that her vision has been fully realized, at least along this stretch of highway. Mom and I find ourselves pointing out opposite sides of the car saying “Look at those! And those! Don’t you just love them!?” They add a special flavor to our trip and we discuss how lovely it is that the state has committed the time, energy and funds to make it all possible.
We travel for ten hours--longer than I’d intended but, I am happy to discover, not more than we can handle. We’ve made it to a small town an hour or so past Asheville where we find a decent hotel and settle in for a good night’s sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I feel a determined pulling on the sheets. Mom has engaged in a serious tug of war and I’m losing. When I reach over to her, she’s talking but doesn’t appear to be awake and looks as if she may be trying to get out of bed.
“Mom?”
“I’m trying to get this together. Can you give me a hand?”
“With what? I’m not sure what you want me to do.” She tugs harder, pulling the sheet off of me. “Just stop asking questions and help me with this. I’m trying to get myself together so I can get all these people organized.” It’s one of the few times I’ve heard her sound cross.
“Ok. Let me pull you back over here.” The upper half of her body is balanced precariously over the side of the bed. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back toward me. “There. Is that better?”
“Yes. Thanks. I’m not sure what just happened. But thanks. I’m going to go back to sleep.”
She remembers nothing of this when we wake up. I wonder what would have happened if I had been in a separate bed. She sleeps in her own room at home. When she fell prior to our trip I found her lying on the floor, a small pillow under her head. She had sent the cat to find me (“Lassie! Is there something wrong with Timmy?”). The cat had, in fact, come into my room and irritated me until I threw her out. Unfortunately, I didn’t equate the cat’s behavior with Mom’s need for help. Mom was distraught and in pain when I finally found her on the floor. I live with the fear that she will fall while I’m at work and won’t be found until her aide, Linda, comes in at 4:30. Linda is, by virtue of the loving care she has provided the past two years, my mother’s closest friend and confidant. She helps my mother with a shower three times a week, trims her hair, does her nails, laughs and cries with her and is worth many times what we are able to pay her.
Mom’s appreciation for anything anyone does for her is boundless. The smallest gestures are praised repeatedly. “Oh! Doesn’t that look good!” she’ll say, when I bring her a simple cup of soup. “Delicious! Thanks so much! I’m really enjoying this.” I’m astounded and blessed that she is so good-natured. I wonder how I would cope if she were cranky and irritable.
Cruising down the interstate, I glance over at Mom. She turns from the window, smiles at me and says, "There's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be right now." I have to agree. Whatever reservations I might have had about this trip are gone in an instant. We drive on.
“Mom, I’m thinking it might be fun to jump in the car and drive to the coast to visit Alison and Ben.”
“Okay.”
“Does that sound like fun?”
“Sure! Sounds great! Do I get to go?”
“Well, would you like to? Do you think you’re up to it?”
“Sure! Why not?”
Why not, indeed. A week earlier I had awakened to find her lying on her bedroom floor, having fallen after getting up and getting herself dressed. She was in pain for several days and while x-rays showed no broken bones, the arthritis in her spine, hips and tailbone is extensive. I question the wisdom of asking her to sit in a car for two and a half days each way. I worry about problems with circulation, confusion, exhaustion. At eighty-nine, she suffers from the usual age-related maladies tempered with an extraordinarily cheerful spirit. She has spent the last three half years since she moved in with me sitting in her chair day after day reading and watching television while I’m at work. I decide it’s worth the potential risks to give us both the gift of a week with my daughter--no expectations, no TV, no routine.
I make hasty plans for leaving, enlisting a friend to check on the cat, water the plants, keep an eye on the house. Within a few days we are on our way. We leave late on a Friday afternoon. I know there’s a chance I’ll need to stop every two hours or so to give Mom a break from sitting still but as it turns out our breaks segue nicely with our fuel stops.
As the miles float past, her questions continue to be repetitive and I wonder how long my patience will hold out. I’ve brought along books on tape and CDs of music that I know we will both enjoy but I’m saving them for the next day when we’ll be in the car for a good ten hours. I soon discover that the long silences (I can drive for hours without saying a word) inspire mom to ruminate on what we are doing, where we are going and why.
“Remind me of where we’re going. Will we be spending the night at home?”
“We’re going to visit Alison and Ben in North Carolina. We should be there by day after tomorrow.”
“What day is it today?”
“Friday. It’s about 8:00. We’ll stop soon to spend the night, then we’ll drive all day tomorrow and get there sometime Sunday.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll try to remember. Now, what’s planted in all these fields? Isn’t it beautiful!”
“They’re soybeans, Mom. Same as that last field we passed, remember?”
“I wouldn’t know a soybean if you put it in my hand. What does one do with a soybean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re used lots of ways. Tofu, for example, is made from soybeans.”
“Tofu? Really? From soybeans? Farmers must be so busy this time of year, with all these crops.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are. Then, in the Fall, they’ll harvest the crops and the whole process will start again in the Spring.”
“Yes, that’s how it works, isn’t it. I’m glad we’re seeing them now, when everything is so green. Now look over here—what are these crops do you think?”
“Soybeans, Mom. Soybeans.”
We find a non-descript hotel for the night. Mom’s exhausted and hungry so I make a quick trip out for food. The only thing close to the hotel is a quick stop convenience store next door and the only things they have to eat are suspiciously soggy-looking pre-packaged tuna or chicken salad sandwiches and a few hotdogs that look as if they have spent far too long on the hot-dog rollers. I buy one anyway, along with a bottle of chocolate milk and a small bag of chips. Back at the hotel, Mom has changed into her nightgown and reaches gratefully for the chocolate milk. She’s not as thrilled with the hot dog, which we split—my half with mustard, hers without. We’re traveling on a tight budget, but I may have reached a new low with this particular meal.
I’m too wound up to sleep so I ask her if she’ll mind if I watch a little TV.
“Go ahead. It won’t bother me—but do you really want to listen to it in Spanish?”
“Spanish? What makes you think it’s in Spanish?”
“Aren’t we in Mexico? Won’t the TV be in Spanish?”
I have no idea how Mexico has become our destination. “No, Mom. We’re not in Mexico. We’re in Tennessee, on our way to visit Alison in North Carolina.”
Her face brightens. “Oh, yes! I’m certainly looking forward to seeing her.”
“Me too, Mom. Let’s go to bed and treat ourselves to a nice meal tomorrow.”
We’re sharing a double bed that’s been made, it seems, with a twin size top sheet. I give the majority of the covers to her—the room is so muggy I have no desire to sleep with anything more than a sheet—and she quickly falls asleep.
In the morning I get up and begin to pack quietly but she opens her eyes, smiles, asks where we are and by 7:30 we’re in the car and headed down the road.
Once we hit the interstate, I’m reluctant to stop other than to pick up food at a drive-thru so we settle for a breakfast sandwich for me, orange juice and scrambled eggs for her. She eats all of her meals on her lap at home, and usually uses a plastic fork, so she’s comfortable with our make-shift in-car picnic.
I pull out the book on tape that I’ve brought along as a surprise. She’s delighted to discover that it’s Bill Bryson reading one of our favorite books, A Walk in the Woods. His story of walking significant portions of the Appalachian Trail with his sidekick, Katz, seems especially appropriate as our route takes us through many of the areas he references. His dry delivery is the perfect counterpoint to his often hysterical prose. We laugh and giggle and are completely enthralled. The miles roll by.
Rest stops are relatively brief, thanks to Mom’s walker and our temporary Handicapped Parking Permit. I notice that people go out of their way to be friendly and accommodating when they encounter us. They hold doors, smile, wait patiently, and some comment softly that I’m blessed to still have my mom. I smile and agree. Some engage in brief conversations about the recent loss of their mothers or how far they live from their parents. When Mom spies a babe in arms, she always, always stops to smile and coo and reach out to touch a chubby arm or knee. Parents are patient and children offer shy smiles. We’re enjoying ourselves and I’m gratified that the trip is going well.
We listen to one of Garrison Keillor’s books on tape. We laugh at his stories and sing along when he sings “What a Wonderful World.” He and Bill Bryson keep me sane mile after mile.
The rolling hills of Tennessee and North Carolina are neatly bisected by interstate 40, the majority of which is divided by a green belt-way studded with fields of wildflowers. North Carolina in particular is strewn with spectacular displays of lilies, orange, deep red, yellow—all planted thoughtfully in lush parings with smaller flowers of contrasting hues. I am told by a shopkeeper at a craft shop that Lady Bird Johnson was the guiding force behind the beautification effort. We are effusively appreciative that her vision has been fully realized, at least along this stretch of highway. Mom and I find ourselves pointing out opposite sides of the car saying “Look at those! And those! Don’t you just love them!?” They add a special flavor to our trip and we discuss how lovely it is that the state has committed the time, energy and funds to make it all possible.
We travel for ten hours--longer than I’d intended but, I am happy to discover, not more than we can handle. We’ve made it to a small town an hour or so past Asheville where we find a decent hotel and settle in for a good night’s sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I feel a determined pulling on the sheets. Mom has engaged in a serious tug of war and I’m losing. When I reach over to her, she’s talking but doesn’t appear to be awake and looks as if she may be trying to get out of bed.
“Mom?”
“I’m trying to get this together. Can you give me a hand?”
“With what? I’m not sure what you want me to do.” She tugs harder, pulling the sheet off of me. “Just stop asking questions and help me with this. I’m trying to get myself together so I can get all these people organized.” It’s one of the few times I’ve heard her sound cross.
“Ok. Let me pull you back over here.” The upper half of her body is balanced precariously over the side of the bed. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back toward me. “There. Is that better?”
“Yes. Thanks. I’m not sure what just happened. But thanks. I’m going to go back to sleep.”
She remembers nothing of this when we wake up. I wonder what would have happened if I had been in a separate bed. She sleeps in her own room at home. When she fell prior to our trip I found her lying on the floor, a small pillow under her head. She had sent the cat to find me (“Lassie! Is there something wrong with Timmy?”). The cat had, in fact, come into my room and irritated me until I threw her out. Unfortunately, I didn’t equate the cat’s behavior with Mom’s need for help. Mom was distraught and in pain when I finally found her on the floor. I live with the fear that she will fall while I’m at work and won’t be found until her aide, Linda, comes in at 4:30. Linda is, by virtue of the loving care she has provided the past two years, my mother’s closest friend and confidant. She helps my mother with a shower three times a week, trims her hair, does her nails, laughs and cries with her and is worth many times what we are able to pay her.
Mom’s appreciation for anything anyone does for her is boundless. The smallest gestures are praised repeatedly. “Oh! Doesn’t that look good!” she’ll say, when I bring her a simple cup of soup. “Delicious! Thanks so much! I’m really enjoying this.” I’m astounded and blessed that she is so good-natured. I wonder how I would cope if she were cranky and irritable.
Cruising down the interstate, I glance over at Mom. She turns from the window, smiles at me and says, "There's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be right now." I have to agree. Whatever reservations I might have had about this trip are gone in an instant. We drive on.
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