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Me & Mom...
Meals are the hardest time.
The rest of the day can, at times, feel almost normal – if normal is
peering close into her hazel eyes to talk, mere inches from her age-lined
face. Or, focusing on straightening her
room in a vain effort to ignore the smell of illness and age. Even discussing with the nurse the short
future she has left is “expected”. But
what isn’t expected, is the stab of grief that pierces my fragile shell as I
spoon pureed fish into my Mother’s mouth.
Sorrow mingled with a warped humor assails me as I realize I’m pursing
my own lips and opening them as I encourage her to open for the bite. The image of feeding my babies in the same
manner and the knowledge that she once fed me the same way, is the obvious
picture that flashes like a still image from an old black and white movie. But, what pierces me the most, is the memory
of the strong-willed, independent, opinionated and active woman that she once
was – as compared with this fragile and compliant shell of the mother I
remember.
Having lived with the paralysis of her lower extremities for
over twenty years, she had yet retained her fierce independence and energy
levels. But, last year, diagnosed with a
new disease, she was denied even the illusion of mobility and
independence. The disease has taken her
ability to interact in any meaningful way.
The muscles of her face, neck and shoulder are nearly paralyzed,
resulting in mostly those expressions that are reflexive, not intentional. Now, wholly dependent on others for her sustenance, movement,
cleanliness and all care, the one thing she retains is her stoic disposition
and innate dignity. Never one to
complain about unalterable facts, she still accepts her lot and awaits the near
end with what little humor and grace can yet be expressed.
And, so, I tease her gently about her loud or difficult
daughters and her slow and muffled answers show her determination to remain
herself. “I’m going to sit with you
awhile Mom” I say directly into her half-closed eyes. “I’ll try to be quiet. – You know how quiet I
am anyway.” I smile to her.
“You? Quiet? Don’t think so” she retorts slowly.
“Well, at least I’m not the difficult one!” I laugh.
“Yeah, right!” is the long-running and expected retort she
offers.
For now she’s still my Mom, even with the feeding and funny
mouth faces I make. I straighten her
room and ignore the smell and sounds of the nursing home – and refuse to look
ahead when she can no longer spar with words or teach me dignity with silence.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Mom... and Me
I've learned patience ~ or rather had it forced upon my limbs. Haste, frustration, anger - all seemingly cut from my psyche as feeling was cut from my legs. Or at least that's the image I portray to those around me. But, at least I still had my mind, words, expressions with which to interact with others. Now, even that is being stripped from me. My face a frozen mask, neck stiff and rigid, my tongue a lump. I can see the pity and fear and hurt in my daughters' when they lean close so that I can see them through my hardening eye.
Sara purses her lips and then opens them, in the bird motion, encouraging me to eat as I once did her. Finally, unwilling to be spoon-fed any more today, I force my heavy lids and rock lips closed, signalling my completion.
