the belle of mirabella

When I get to Mom's, it's been a hard day, a hard week. Everything this week has required thought, enormous effort. Mom's problems have been then least of my concerns. What I want to say to everyone in my life, in my classroom, in my family--why can't we all just get along? I've had difficult students this week....difficult class confrontations and resolutions. And then there's the issue of my brother Eric--how we have yet to come to an agreement about him resigning as power of attorney. Everyday I think of him, wondering where he has gone. Not that he's physically lost, like my other brother, but rather that I don't know who he is anymore. When I saw the recent bank statements with the cash withdraws from Mom's account for the months of September, October, November of 2009, months when my brother could have no justifiable reason for taking hundreds of dollars out of her account two, three four times a month, I found myself hollow, emptied inside. Like what's left once the innards of a cantaloupe have been scrapped from the husk. There's just the raw flesh behind. I am well past rage and now have entered into that territory where disbelief no longer exists. There's just knowledge, the terrible kind of apple-tree knowledge, where Adam and Eve have bitten the fruit and know there's no going back. As a psychiatrist acquaintance recently reminded me, we can be as honest as we like, but there are still consequences that follow. Eric bit the apple and now the consequences are following. I just didn't know how painful this would be, watching my brother disappear.

So when I get to Mom's I feel heavy--my body's taken on the affect of my mind. Even my feet are leaden, like the leather buckle boots I wear are just too much. For the last two weeks, Mom's been watching the coverage of the disaster in Haiti. Day in and day, she follows the lives and deaths of hundreds of thousands of people like they are her friends, her coworkers, her extended family. Sometimes Lorna has to turn it off, as Mom gets to crying and can't be stopped but for a dosage of Seroquel. So once I'm through the door today, I can hear the TV set is on and CNN is blaring. Together we've watched a baby pulled alive from the ruble and we've watched shanty-towns appearing in vacant lots where people have made themselves a temporary home out of sheets and sticks of wood and we've watched fear turn to despair and then to rage as camera people and reporters film the stages of grief played out on the faces of survivors.

I wonder what Mom is thinking when she sees all the photos, hears the coverage. Is this her world? Or does she see this as something happening a long ways away? Does she wonder why she is "safe" and 150 people are buried alive under massive piles of concrete? What happened to these not-quite-survivors--are they now part of the death toll? TB...malaria...diseases rampant in Haiti. No water, no electricity, no food, inadequate medical attention. And Mom is here, at the Mirabella, "safe" in her cocoon of Alzheimer's and stroke recovery.

"Do you feel fortunate?" I ask Mom, as we both look intently at the flat screen TV monitor.

Mom doesn't respond. I can't even guess what her answer might be.

But as I've learned, sometimes the unexpected does happen. It never pays to rule out the possibility. So, for example, Mom "made" a sailboat today--took a paint brush, according to Lorna, and splashed green paint on the sides, red paint on the top and a thin yellow trim around the perimeter. The boat is lovely. I wasn't there for the project, so I wonder how much of this Mom painted and how much of it Lorna did. Mom can't grab onto a pen or take a hold of a cup, so painting with a brush seems unimaginable to me. But maybe she did? Maybe this was her lucky day?

When Adama brings dinner, "Sole w/ Julienne Veggies and Tomato Broth," Lorna hauls out Mom's new "apron," something Courtney (the activities director) gave her today. I call it an apron, as Mom would be unhappy thinking it was a bib. Actually, it's somewhere in between--longer than a bib but not as much coverage as a full length kitchen apron. She's thrilled with her new attire and Lorna seems happy--helps with the spillage issues Mom has every time she eats.

With the TV off, the realities of the Mirabella once again assume their urgent importance. I watch as Mom tries to grab her fork full of broccoli, tries to reach for her napkin, none of which does she successfully accomplish. But she's trying all the same. Her arms aren't useless like how my aunt's were in her final days. She's not quite as close to death.

"You're lucky Mom," I say. "A lucky woman." And just in case she doesn't understand, I add--"Lucky you can move your arms...your hands.

Mom stops her chewing then and her mouth hinges opens to a huge laughing grin. I can see the partially masticated fish and vegetables pausing there on her tongue like flotsam.

"Lucky," she beams. "Lucky lady," the phrase Lorna often offers in relation to Mom

We both laugh. Loudly. Loud enough that for the moment we can't hear the screams down the hall.

"Have been..." she continues. "Have been for..."

And I know then what she's wanting to say.

"Have been for eight-five years?" I help her finish.

"Yes," Mom says. "Yes...that's it. It."

"Here she is," Lorna chimes in, nodding at Mom as she surreptitiously scoops more couscous onto Mom's fork. Mom hasn't noticed...her attention has been elsewhere.

"The b-e-l-l-e of Mirab-e-l-l-a," Lorna finishes, her voice a song, notes rising, winging themselves out the door, down the hall. Away from here...from our good fortune...our abundance.

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