It is an honor to care for my mom.
I know it sounds kind of geisha.
Put aside the actual labor of it and the worry of it, the babysitting and the hours.
Tonight I put her to bed and after I lifted her onto her bed sitting up with her feet on the floor, I sat next to her and hugged her. Like she was a real person without a wheelchair, like herself. It made me cry, or maybe don't play Diana Krall while doing this after working a 14 hour day with a person who has words that don't make sense but who is still the shape of your mom.
We sat there and hugged sideways, like we were on a fishing boat and watching for a really big one. Or maybe just watching out to see what would come next. What the next far away wave might fling skyward. We always lived near water. In reality we were only looking at the refrigerator. I took a picture down and pointed at the people. Who is that? I asked.
She looked a long time. She finally pointed at my big brother, herself, and her mom, from like 1979.
One, two, three, she said as she touched each face.
I love her brain because she is still here, and her -whatever journey this is, is still interesting. I am grateful she doesn't look at that picture and cry when she sees her mom now. I'm grateful she's still here, in her shape, for me.
To get her feet whipped up into the bed, I have to sort of spin her with my left arm at her torso and my right arm on the opposite side of her legs, and twist her quick like a corkscrew because it's the only way I can do it without damaging my one sore arm. We do a swift one today and she laughs and says "I like that!" because it's sort of like a micro carnival ride. She did always like the Tilt a Whirl at the fair.
All bundled in blankets she talks while I smooth her hair the way she likes. I sit so I'm facing her this time and when my face is in her face she smiles so much. She wrinkles her brow when I am crying, even if I am smiling through it, to help her. I like when Diana Krall is singing, that's her person she liked, but man when she's singing and you and your mom are just gazing at each other because that's the best way to talk tonight, her music can dissolve you.
I felt happiness. It spread out of my heart and onto the blankets. I felt it because I have waded through this 16 months thinking I'm barely functioning but I am so grateful to have this time to feel everything as it's happening, and help her when she can't help herself. Even though she has the stomach muscles of a romanian gymnast. She could live 10 more years physically. But her brain is signaling for the check. So we have gotten to this place on this bed with just her eyes, and my eyes, that unbroken connection of gazing and not looking away, and even though it is beyond epic, the feelings of loving your mother, imperfect, mistakes everywhere, always fractured, there it is just the same, the wave of appreciation for this person, her flesh and bones, her eyes still talking to me, in my life.
It was relief, seeing her peacefulness, to have gotten this far and be able to relax for a second. So much of dementia or dying is fear. Anxiety.
I'm going to try and focus on the days on the couch in the sun, with her next to me. Especially now that ER is starting back over at Season One so I can see the 11 seasons I missed. I think it doesn't matter what we're doing, or how long it's taking right now. We're taking the time, and we're not looking away.
And the putting her to bed, where she still squeezes my hand and gazes at the face she made from her own body, and smiles at me, and she doesn't look away.
The word she likes best right now, Stay.
