One evening I was sitting on the couch with Mom when she said, more to the TV than to me: “I wish it were earlier.” We were watching Law & Order: SVU, a favorite show of ours, though not really following the plot. Instead, we were focused on Mariska (and, shallow me) her appearance, as usual. And the date of the episode, which always intrigued my mom. Sometimes we'd take a guess before pushing the info button on the remote, often getting within a couple of years just by looking at Mariska’s face and hair. It was a fun little thing to do with Mom on the couch. “Mom,” I said, “it's only 8:15. It's still early. Another episode of SVU comes on at nine.” To which she replied: “I wish I were younger.”
It was one of the few times while I was living with my mom last year that she touched on her own mortality, with regret. I didn't know what to say. I had been trying to take care of her as best I could, alleviate her pain, cajole her into drinking fluids and eating when she lost her appetite--and all with some success. But I couldn't give her back time. She had months, hopefully, maybe even a year or two, but time was running out. Mom knew it; we all did. She said nothing more on the subject and we set our sights back on Mariska, who I could usually count on to dull the despair I felt at being powerless to change the direction my mother was headed. Except that night not only did I feel despair, I felt shame, because I couldn't find some way to erase Mom's fear of what was coming. Even now I wouldn't know what to say.
Mom passed away on Thanksgiving, several months after I had returned to San Francisco from the Boston area where she lived. That afternoon I opted for a long walk over a holiday meal with friends so I headed down to the Embarcadero where I could be anonymous and teary eyed and not care who saw me. The shimmering water passing under the Bay Bridge, the gulls flying in formation against the afternoon glare, and the balmy temps made me feel better. It was a good place to reminisce about Mom before heading back to Massachusetts for the whirlwind of events that take place in the aftermath of death.
I thought about how Mom’s ailments made her progressively more miserable. How hip pain and arthritis made getting up from the couch and walking an excruciating ordeal. How dementia wrecked her short term memory and how much that frustrated her. And how that damn cannula irritated her nose and made it constantly run, which she could never completely blow dry. Every night, after I tucked her in, she pleaded with me to take off the tube, afraid the snake like thing would strangle her as she slept. “Mom, they wouldn't let you sleep with it on if it were unsafe,” I assured her, “and you have to leave it on. The oxygen is keeping you alive.” That would calm her anxiety, letting her drift off into a world all her own, free of discomfort, and free of that damn cannula.
I also thought a lot about our rides. Since Mom was frail and not that mobile, it wasn’t easy for her to get from the front porch, down three steps, across a walkway, and into the car. But once buckled in and on her way, she seemed quietly rejuvenated, enjoying the parade of scenic landmarks that marked the backroads to wherever we were going, mostly to the doctor’s. Little seems to change in the leafy, privileged suburbs where I grew up, and that was grounding and comforting for us both. Woods, lakes, golf courses, and manicured houses stirred memories and sparked conversations. “Didn’t so and so used to live there?” “The last time I went into the Unitarian church was for a high school dance!” “Did we ever swim in Walden Pond?”
Our last drive was to the eye doctor’s. I was early so I decided to take Mom for a spin around the parking lot. It was a nice day; some fresh air would do us good. It was a nice parking lot, too, bordered by a gently upward sloping hill covered with trees, beyond which I imagined more woods, maybe even a trail leading to the Assabet River. I pushed Mom’s wheelchair toward the hill and stopped in a patch of sunlight by a picnic bench. Mom looked content and relaxed, the way she always looked whenever she was soaking up some sun. Although I didn’t ask what she was thinking, I know they were good thoughts, thoughts that took her far from doctors and hospitals and terrible fears she kept to herself. I wish I could have made those moments last longer, before the eye doctor--before life--pulled her away from me, but I’m glad we could share them together by that picnic bench one fine afternoon last spring. My wonderful mom, warm, comfortable, and at peace in the sun..