The Waning

(image by Michal G)

I'm at the hospital with my mother. The short, squat woman at the registration desk is asking me questions about my mother's health history as if she isn't there. I look first to my mother to acknowledge her presence, then back at the registration clerk to answer the questions. I double check most of the answers with my mother: I confirm her height, weight, list of medications. I feel embarrassed when I realize there's much I don't know. Being my mother's advocate is a role that feels strange, and I feel a sudden panic about not being able to manage it properly.

My mother is weak and fragile these days, unable to walk unless she holds onto me. I ask her when she'd last eaten since the CAT scan she's going to have requires fasting. She looks at me blankly and doesn't answer. I may as well have asked her the density of Jupiter. Later, she confesses to me that she can't remember the last time she ate.

I know that we need to have a conversation about what's next, but I have no clue as to what that might be. What is next for someone who can't take care of herself but refuses to move into a nursing home? Someone who still smokes and drinks but can't seem to feed herself on a regular basis? Someone so weak she can't stand for longer than a minute or two?

At each point in our hospital adventure, the staff continues to speak to me rather than her. I tell my mother that this bothers me, but she says she doesn't care. As long as I am here to talk to them, she says she's fine not having them acknowledge her. Suddenly, I'm thrust into the role of my mother's communicator. When did this happen? Wasn't she completely fine taking care of herself just a few weeks ago?

I briefly wonder how much longer she'll live. I make a mental wish that when it's her time to go, she goes quickly. No prolonged illnesses or hospitalizations. She's a terrible patient who refuses to listen to anyone, least of all me. It will be better for both of us if she just passes one day in her sleep. I set this intention for her, but then feel guilty thinking it. In the next instant, I wonder if I'll miss her once she's gone.

It's a reasonable concern. She's never been the sort of mother who's easy to love. She's always been more of the irresponsible child in our relationship. My job is to take care of her, bail her out of bad situations, and then clean up the resulting messes and fallout from her poor decisions. Her job is to do what she wants and mostly ignore me.

 

I've never been able to share much of my life - my secret longings, fears, and successes - with her. She will judge and condemn any parts that aren't the way she would want them to be. Growing up, I'd feel hurt and rejected and would blame myself for not being a different person. After a lifetime of poor self esteem, I eventually learned that it's easier for me to simply not tell her anything.

I have to help my mother get undressed for her CAT scan, a tricky task considering she's still in a wheelchair and too weak to stand. I help remove her shirt, then her bra. I can see her bones. Her shoulders are now about the same width as a child's. She has no muscles. Her flesh drapes like heavy curtains over her small frame. I fish her bony arms through the openings of the hospital gown and then cover her with another gown to keep her warm. She smiles at me - her first hint of appreciation all day.

A few minutes later, a nurse arrives to take my mother for her procedure. I feel  secretly relieved that I'm not allowed to accompany her to the testing room.

Once they're gone, I sink comfortably into the solitude of the waiting room. I think about how I used to be a woman raising a family. Now I'm a woman raising a family and being a caregiver for her mother. I feel tiny and alone, unable to avoid feeling as if I'm about to be swallowed whole by the demands of my life.

No one tells you how you can be instantly transported to being a child when caring for an aging parent. Even though my mother is the one needing care, the underlying dynamic of our relationship - me wanting to appease her and not rock the boat - is still there. When I look at her, I still see the face of a woman who always seemed angry, the mother always about to scold me.

A lifetime of mistakes suggests that she may never have known what's truly best for her, but I've not yet accepted that I do. Her mind is still sharp, so I let her make decisions about her own care. I research medical terms and conditions so I can adequately explain them for her to understand. She's still the alpha dog. I am her minion.

The nurse returns with my mother after several minutes. They're arguing about my mother's veins. My mother pushes up the sleeve of her hospital gown to show me four different bandages on her arm.

                "We had a little trouble finding her vein," the nurse explains.

                "I told you to only use my left arm but you didn't listen to me," my mother yells at the nurse. I feel a pang of guilt. I knew about the left arm and didn't say anything. I didn't expect that I had to.

After helping my mother get dressed, I wheel her out to the hospital lobby to wait while I get the car. I walk down toward the parking lot but glance back briefly to make sure she's OK. She looks so small sitting there alone in the wheelchair. In the blink of an eye, I've become my parent's parent.

I pull the car up to the lobby door and help her out of the wheelchair and into the car. She lets out a sigh as she settles into the seat.

                "I'm so glad to have that over with," she tells me.

I don't tell her that it's not over, that it's only just the beginning. Instead, I put the car in gear and drive her home.