home: part seven

It's a basic conversation. As a woman who practiced law for years, even estate planning law, there should be nothing surprising here for me. Mom's lawyer fills us in about what happens when Mom dies, about how her assets are disposed, about what our responsibilities are as PRs. Everything's routine. And yet, it's not.

This is my mom we are talking about, mine and Eric's. Despite the disclaimers about--"not to be morbid," the language we prettily use to get around the fact that we are talking about an upcoming event both Eric and I dread, Mom's death--I can't help but feel the objecthood of Mom's body creeping in: how the business of death somehow necessitates the shift to a different terminology, one of practicality and assets and cash flow and death taxes. In the wake of this jargon, (these difficult topics ultimately) Mom's humanity disappears. This is so, despite our attempts to not have this happen.

Mom as a "thing," a nearly-inanimate body riddled with the aftermath of stroke, with the ongoing death of her brain cells from Alzheimer's, with the increasing risks of amyloid angiopathy. When does a body become a "thing," when does a "thing" become a revered object of mourning? If I was in my classroom, I'd say that women perpetually inhabit the simultaneous positions of subject and object: we are made into "things" and we allow ourselves to become "things." Are ailing bodies like Mom's the same?

Mom as a point of business conversation feels disloyal--all those years she drilled into me the idea that some things just aren't meant to be put into words. Death is one of them, as well as family "secrets," things like the disappearance of my brother Peter and his unlikely resurrection back into you family. (Oh, the treachery I have occasioned by my speaking out regarding Peter.) Lips should be sealed. Even when Mom finally consented to do her estate planning back in 2005 (unfortunately too late to be really useful), she still couldn't talk about her demise and what would happen next. She tells her attorney, the same one we speak with today, that "Eric and Christine can work all that out." Mom doesn't care that "working all that out" could put an impossible strain and our already difficult sibling relationship. We love each other, Eric and I, but have such different ideas at time. "You and I collide," as my theme song would say (if I could listen to it) at the worst possible times.

Mom's having a bad day at the Mirabella--four days of constipation due to her neurogenic bladder (and subsequent enema this morning), pain from OT, significant cognitive confusion, possibly suffering from a UTI (urinary tract infection): she is not herself, or at least the self that she's been for the last week or so (prior to the weekend). Multiple selves--Mom is many women and when I arrive at the Mirabella I am never sure who she will be. So I am thinking--am I this way too? Are we all this way? Is identity so difficult, painful that we shift ourselves unconsciously between versions of ourselves? I know what psych theory says--we form our identity in relation to what is around us; we are always in relation. And yet, I feel that Mom is taking this to a new dimension. She is literally different selves as the stroke plays havoc with the right frontal lobe of her brain--the place where all our emotions are stored, processed. She is unstable, erratic, even to herself. What must this be like--not to be able to depend on one's self?

Today we have planned a big outing--Jennifer (friend and OT) and I are taking Mom to the Pike Street Market. We've been talking about this for weeks, as it's taken weeks to plan: procuring a doctor's order for a therapeutic outing, getting wheelchair transport so that we can get Mom and her caregiver and ourselves down to Pike Street. The weather cooperates--it's a beautiful day--but Mom is not her best. Not at all.

When we get ourselves down to the lobby of the Mirabella, Larry is there with the van from Club 24. Larry is a peach--we have used him before for transporting Mom: kind and compassionate, he's a positive addition to our party. Standing by the lift at the rear of the van--the place where Mom's wheel chair will be hoisted-up to the level of the van's floor--Mom is at a stand still. She saying--

"I won't go....no....not go."

She's saying this loudly, emphatically--speaking louder than I've heard her speak in a long time.

I bend down to the ground, look her in the eyes and ask--"What's wrong Mom?" She answers with--"We can't go....without...you know...can't." 'Can't go without what, Mom?" I say back to her. She's sputtering and shaking her head by now, her eyes are darting, looking at everything but me and the van. I can see her agitation is rising, but I can't tell if it's because she can't say what she wants to communicate to me or if it's she just doesn't want to go on our outing.

I explain to her that we've planned this for weeks and that we are all looking forward to this. In response, she says something about--"He...she...needs to come." "Who, Mom?" I ask her. "Who needs to be here?" In my head, I'm thinking--Eric, Terry, Caroline? Who is she needing right now?" When I offer these three names to Mom, she shakes her head "No." The frustration is building--by now we are working on nearly ten minutes of steadily accelerating agitation and, to be honest, unpleasant anger. Just in case she's referring to my brother's family, I remind her that the three of them left for vacation this morning and won't be back until Sunday night. She shakes her head-- "No"--making it clear she's not looking for her family. My reminder of their absence, however, seems to agitate her further. I am at a loss as to what to say.

Finally, I say--Let's just get in the van and see if we can have some fun. We've been looking forward to this all week."

Mom turns to me then, looking me straight in the eye, and says, very loudly--loudly enough for Lorna and Larry to hear--and in a tone of voice that emphasizes each word and syllable, something I didn't think she was still capable of doing:

"You're an asshole!"

I am so stunned by her words, that I feel like I need to ask her to repeat it, just to make sure my ears have heard this correctly, but of course I don't. No one needs to hear this twice. "Asshole" is a word I've never heard Mom utter, not in my entire life, and it certainly isn't a word I would have thought she'd say to me. I would have bet money on that.

We sit here a moment in the quiet, in the empty wake of her words--neither of us talking. We are looking at each other. Saying nothing.

"Mom," I say. "Mom...that makes me want to cry." I work hard to keep the tears pooled in my lids rather than running down my face.

We sit here like this--me squatting uncomfortably on my heels and she slumped in her chair, her red shawl flapping in a lift-of-a-breeze as its fringe dangles down through the spokes of her wheels.

We sit for a very long time. The sun shines and the shadows creep like snakes through the elm leaves, flicking tails and tongues of lowering light across the concrete street and the cars parked to either side of Fairview Avenue. The world is still, but for us.

"Let's go," I say to Mom eventually. Mom says nothing.

At my cue, Lorna smiles for my camera and steers Mom's chair to the lift. Larry operates the lift, bringing Mom's chair to rest just inside the rear doors of the van. We all get in. Nobody says anything. Not a word.

We are all a long ways from home.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--