idiot child. mom had tried three times since early this evening to get up to walk to the bathroom with me and the walker as we do.
because she’s so weak and because I’m not sure why, she’s not been able to stand and small as she is, I’m not able to carry her.
so we didn’t.
was sleeping next to her, on top of her quilt as I do, wakened about an hour ago by her moving a bit, trying to hear her over the sound of the machine. understanding that she wants to try to get up again. she can’t again, and then and only then, hours after any reasonable person might have done, remembered that the decorative grey thing on top of her toilet actually moves. is portable for the love of god. and so, yes. achievement unlocked.
wrote this to my brother, who’d asked earlier about our status:
because it only took me til half an hour ago to realize that the commode could come to Hannibal.
but now I know I can get her from the bed to the commode next to the bed.
so, there’ s that
making progress
one speaks of the progression of the disease
precipitously
no one seems really to know
not exactly cabin fever.
is ague a word? is low grade thrum in the back and front and middle of a life, warp and weft,
sadness at leaving the flowers on one’s own kitchen table, awareness of the fragility and balance between and among the instrumental minutes - right foot, first, put your left hand here, use the arm of the chair and then the bars - to the minutes of clearer. to words. to kindness.
from the six year old stomping foot girl, the tired fifty years later grieving one, the daughter lashing out at an unseeable cruel disease.
the mother who spent her life on everyone else to have it now torn apart, taken away like handfuls, fists full of clumps of hair. stupid, stupid disease.
sensing, knowing, that the only way through is to learn to be better at being present, is to learn to understand our lives in some many different ways. to be angry in some other way.
groundhog day. grieving. stealth grieving, ninja grieving.
again and again
still
over and over.
sad
and home.
unaccustomed to not getting up to go to be at mom’s by 9
and crying.
sort of like sneezing, or a hiccup
or a cough, or a stretch
it’s what all I do
now
sent an email to a friend about a drink tomorrow.
dark out, ready to walk home, go to Amy’s for Alexander’s sixth birthday cupcake and prosecco celebration before the bank and mom’s.
and unbidden.
the tears.
as they do.
from nowhere.
from everywhere.
these ones quiet. stealth tears. office tears. sad tired quiet ones.
as they do.
throwback thursday, january 17, 2003
found this in a photo folder. still at work. on the other side of tired, trying to finish up some things, feeling all the love, all the empty, all the sad.
hadn’t seen this photo in a long time. quiet. sad. my heart full and empty; finish in a while, go see mom and then go home and have dinner with tom. quiet. quietly.
just us. at home, such as it is.
quietly.
maybe that’s the best.
begin again
I don’t know.
in college, learn that every narrative, every story, has a beginning, middle and end.
my brother observes that plans for my mother have been ad hoc in nature.
much of my adult life could be characterized as such as well. too stupid to be scared, too lucky to notice, too sad to move too far. too now to be planful. to know what’s next.
since himself passed, the days unfold, unravel, elapse. think of the line in our town, like silk off a spool.
the days go by. I move through them. there are tears and tears.
these 48 hours, since we arrived on Wednesday night, have felt like forever.
after so much dread, the simple and unspeakable acts of cleaning, packing, moving things, going to offices.
nowhere near A New Beginning. and yet. every day. every one. the ones at my mother’s; these few now here. every morning, every one:
begin again.
