On the Table in Catchall

When we moved back to my hometown six years ago, I had a vague hope that my relationship with my mother, complicated and messy and tangled, might benefit from proximity and the chance to build new connections. Shortly after moving here, my husband lost his job (for the third time in six years, always with extenuating circumstances, but Jesus God, the unifying thread was always him). The six months that followed tested us but we persevered, and culminated with a new job for him, and yet I was no longer solid in my belief in us. Couples counseling helped, as did time, as always. I continued with the counselor to address my own anxieties and sadness, and it always, always came back to my mother. The ruts gouged in my own psyche are deep and old and always lead back to the insecure, anxious child I was in my own mind, despite outward success, good girl, follow the leader. I’ve continued with Dawn, my counselor, off and on over the years that have followed, going in for tune-ups when the tightness in my chest tells me it’s time. And yet, and yet, always my mom, although the focus has shifted to what has been lost, rather than what can be found.

Shortly after we arrived here, mom’s scatterbrainedness progressed to the point where it was no longer easily shrugged off as lack of attention, too much wine, just not caring to remember. We waded into the murky medical waters of dementia care (ha!) and explored neurology, gerontology, heavy metal chelation, but the steady progression of symptoms continued. As the “medical person” of the family, I was her guide and my dad’s translator, returning her home after each visit to his hopeful face wanting, needing good news, but it never was. My sister, also local, has a role; decompression, ranting, “can you believe this shit?”, my sounding board and my soft landing. After her fourth yearly neuro visit, her “score” had fallen from 98 (normal, although she was anything but) to 74 (early dementia, likely Alzheimer type). Her score certainly reflects our current situation. My dad’s recent three-day hospitalization for a broken hip showed us (some more than others) that mom could no longer live independently, as she could not remember from hour to hour where my dad was, much less get herself to his bedside once her whiteboard reminders reoriented her.

All this to bring it back to me, because this is my diary (open). Any ember of hope of maturation or evolution of my relationship with my mom is cold and dark. No new memories are being formed on her end, so any hope of meaningful conversation, much less new connection, seems to be unlikely.

I was talking to Dawn recently about my sister and my need (want?) to sit down and have The Big Talk with dad about planmaking and contingency creation and finances and wishes and medical DPOA. Big stuff, for a man who doesn’t talk big. He’s just in the past six months or so come to some sort of acceptance that this is the path they’re walking, and it’s one way only. I’ve been fretting about how to word things, how to approach with delicacy and respect and encourage agency. Dawn suggested that while yes, things do need to be said and arranged and planned for (for me to feel safe(r)), that perhaps all these things do not need to be said. We know what he will say, for the most part. We know what they want, for the most part. And when the time comes, we will do the things. We will make the arrangements. It will be okay, and it will be awful, but it will be.

I’ve just turned 50 and with it comes some degree of freedom to just say “fuck it” and be the person I am without apology or fear. I say the things on my mind more than I ever did in younger years, and I’m told this is not uncommon. My small circle of friends includes several 70-year old women; if you want a master class on the fine art of not giving a fuck, befriend yourself some older ladies. They do not mess around anymore. There’s not time.

In the realm of self care, I get massages, facials, situations where it is 100% about me, unavoidably luxury and indulgence. At the start of each, when asked what I need or want from the session, the answer is always the same: I just want someone to be nice to me for 90 uninterrupted minutes. I had a facial this week and was looking forward to the silence and sensuality of hands on my face, but Sasha is chatty and remembers me from my last facial, where I was in a talkative mood. As I lay there, somehow, amazingly, I was telling her about my mom, about my diminished hopes for restorative interactions, and Dawn’s words came from my mouth. “It doesn’t really matter if I ever have the conversations I wanted to have with her. I know what she would say, I know her and I don’t need to have the two-way to know what I needed or wanted to know.”

With age comes some ability to let go of the past, and with help, you can move past the blocks you put in your own path of “if only, if only.” Move forward. Leave what you don’t need. Take the rest, but travel light, if you can.