It’s 8:02 pm, and all I really want to do is crawl into an actual bed. *My* actual bed.
At her facility, mom’s in one of the two bedroom apartments. At first we thought might use the spare as a study, but as things deteriorated, it became obvious that was a pipe dream. Eventually, we bought a rollaway cot where each of us sleeps when we visit.
That cot and I developed a relationship this past week, and, while I wouldn’t call it “toxic,”, it’s clearly one of those friendships that requires regular, cleansing hiatuses. My right shoulder feels weird, and there’s a creakiness in my neck I swear wasn’t there before.
For those who are curious (which is likely everyone), she’s better. The mind-bending pain that seemed to come out of nowhere has a tentative diagnosis that is not dire, and seems now, with additional drugs, to be under control. We’ll monitor for a few weeks, but this morning she was annoyed the caregiver was helping with her socks: “I don’t need to be waited on hand and foot! I’m not an invalid!” I took this as a good sign.
The highway this morning was mostly gray and mostly empty. Around Cleveland, I counted seven semis, jackknifed and languishing in the snow-filled ditches and was silently grateful for the complications that kept me from leaving during yesterday’s storm.
I attended a Teams meeting that faded in and out with my cell service: “Good synthesis of the…think that’s great, Mark…should we?…OK. Sounds like we all…” As it ended, I agreed to everything and signed off. I tried listening to music, all of which felt jarring, and set my teeth on edge. None of the audiobooks held my attention. I drove in silence.
And perhaps silence was what was necessary. At the very least it allowed me to contemplate the last thing I learned from this visit. My mother’s caregivers adore her. Everyone loves Barb. When I chat with them during her naps, they speak with a real and profound affection that surprises me.
And yet, I feel, always, this strange urge to tell them more. “She has a master’s in chemistry,” I say. “She played tennis and climbed mountains. She was a church elder. She taught herself Greek.” They nod and smile and seem happy to receive my bits of trivia, but never ask much more.
As I drove, I realized that these women may see my mother more clearly than I do. They are not mourning some past version of her or gauging what is against what was. They love the human being in front of them. Nothing is missing or lacking or in need of restoration. Neither they nor she require my explanations, which, if I’m be honest, are really apologies.
Tonight, as I get ready to ease into my actual bed, I can’t be too hard on myself. For me not to weep over what’s gone would be a superhuman feat of nonresistance. I can’t manage it yet or possibly ever. But at the same time, I am inordinately grateful that my mother is also surrounded by those whose new love is only joy.
It took me a week to see it. So maybe, on the whole, that cot is a better friend than I thought.
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