Her church was the first to call.
“She’s forgetting things.”
It was sort of blamey, at least that’s how I took it — me, one of two sons, 22 hours away. Or two flights and a long shuttle ride, which has to be coordinated ahead of time.
The last time I went, I got to step into her routine, rigid and repetitive; it’s the only thing she has, really – the routine. Roast beef and yogurt sandwiches every day. Leg cramp pills four times a day. Free bus ride to the grocery store twice a week, church on Saturday and Sunday, post office (less and less), free coffee and cookie at the bank on Friday. It’s a life, not one I’d want to have, but she claims she’s happy. That’s what she tells me on the phone, after she talks about the leg cramp pills and her roast beef sandwiches.
“Really? After you take the pills, the cramps just go away?”
When I was there, I tried to take her to our favorite pizza place, the one with sawdust on the floor and my initials etched in the table, but she freaked out. I felt like an idiot, like Tom Cruise in Rainman, taking this scared person somewhere for my own benefit… to reminisce.
Is that the definition of selfishness? Asking a woman who’s losing her memory to reminisce.
What the hell was I thinking? That we’d sit on the benches and look for my initials? No, it’s over here. No, I swear it’s on this one. Remember how we used to play pinball?
She bolted out the door, not out of anger, so much as panic. Once in her apartment, we nestled back into her routine. Ah, the routine. CNN in the living room. Yogurt sandwich offered. Sun setting.
So now its the bank calling. Same concerned, blamey tone, at least that’s how I took it. But they were nice. They didn’t have to do it.
“We’re worried about her.”
Yeah, no shit.
How do I tell them she’s difficult, that you don’t just convince her to do things, that she’s adamant about no nursing homes, that I’ve been trying to get someone to visit her apartment for months, that she’s always been hard to be around, that she’s pushed away just about everyone that’s ever been in her life?
I think about another plane ride, of the long ride from the airport, the weird hello in the doorway like she sorta knows me but is a little suspicious of this friendly guy with the stories. We’d sit on her balcony, drink Budweisers, listen to her tell me about the parking long across the street. No more drug dealers and thank God they painted…
What the hell am I gonna do up there? I’ll tell her what needs to be done, and she’ll say she ain’t gonna do it. Or she’ll just get quiet.
And then I’ll tell her again…cuz that’s my role now.
It’s like we’re standing in front of a door that’s closing, and there’s barely any light coming out of it, and she’s not doing anything about it.
Maybe if I fly up there, I can wedge my foot in, I can wedge it in enough to pry it open.
But let’s be honest, I don’t want to go in there. I’m afraid of what’s inside. Like, real afraid.
And that’s the awful part. I do nothing and it’s bad, but I do something and it’s worse.
It’s no wonder I keep doing what I’m doing: feeding her cues and pretending she’s okay, or at least maybe she’s staying at the same level of not-okay.
Hey mom, It’s Cliff, your son in Oakland. Yeah, the one who bought you the TV. No way. Really? The pain just goes away? Just like that? That’s crazy.
It’s sad. It’s weak.
But at least I know what comes next.