Mom & Me Three Archive

    Earlier this evening, as I always do, as my mother always prompts me to do by asking, usually about half an hour before she retires (like a setting a timer), "So, what's on the agenda for tomorrow?", I mentioned that I need to make a trip to Costco. We're running out of paper underwear and we could use a few other things, bacon, Parmesan cheese, maybe some of those blueberries if they have them, maybe I'll make another blueberry cobbler ["Mmmm, yes, blueberry cobbler. Definitely get blueberries if they have them. Do we still have cream?" Yes, we always have cream.], more salad greens, we're going through them pretty fast these days...and, I said, "Maybe I'll wait until you're up tomorrow. We'll get you bathed, your hair looks good in that side cascade..."
    "It does, doesn't it! Thanks to my hairdresser..."
    "...yes, tip that hairdresser well..."
    We both laugh...I'm the hairdresser...
    "...we'll throw the walker and the wheelchair in the back and you can go with me, look around, people watch, you know..."
    Her face scrunched. "I just don't like that wheelchair, or that walker."
    "Mom," I said, "if you're going to go out, we need to use them. That's all there is to it. It's better. It's safer. And if you get a back ache from the walker the wheelchair will be handy. Good way to survey the world. Don't you want to get out and see what's going on out there?"
    This is a routine speech I give about once a week, sometimes more often. We've both memorized it. And her response. It's all on the schedule.
    Tonight, though, the schedule went haywire. Mom's response, "No, I don't think it's necessary." Just like that.
    I did an internal double take. I couldn't let this go. I needed clarification. "You mean it's not necessary for you to go with me to Costco tomorrow or it's not necessary to get out?"
    She looked at me as though she'd just discovered that she'd given birth to an inordinately stupid human. "Go to Costco, get out. Same thing."
    So, we're here. Wow.
    Earlier in the day I was talking to MPS. I'd previously neglected to mention to her that this is the summer when Mom isn't revving up from winter, anymore. "She's slowing down," I said, choking on some tears. "I didn't think it would be this summer, I thought she had one more in her. But I was wrong."
    "I think that's okay," MPS said, both of us softly, audibly weeping. "She's happy [and she is]. She's comfortable [and she is]. She has everything she wants [and she does]. She's in her own home, she's safe, she has family there, she's not just tolerated, she's the focus of someone's loving interest, I think it's okay that she's slowing down."
    Funny, this is the same conversation I had with MCS a few weeks ago. It's all true. I've been saying it. My sisters have been saying it. Not until tonight, though, did I acknowledge it, when Mom said, "No, I don't think [getting out] is necessary."
    I left the room for a minute to get something, I don't remember what, and fought back tears of realization. Took a few deep breaths. Once again, it was as though someone had come up to me and said, "New York?!? No, you're in Newark, not New York."
    I thanked Mom for telling me this. I needed to know this, I told her. I've suspected that we drove past New York a while ago: Each time I've pushed a little here to get her out, badgered a little there to try to get her moving through the door or, at least, do a few exercises to prepare her muscles for moving, every time she's resisted and I've decided to drop it because it's not worth her irritation or mine, I've wondered where we really are.
    Now I know. The shock's worn off and I feel better.
    No wonder. I can stop looking for the Empire State Building and concentrate on what's around me. Newark. Not New York.