The Drive Home

Somewhere in the course of, say, 40 or 50 years or so, everything gets turned around. You were dependent on your mother; now she's dependent on you. You have kids, and find yourself saying the same things to your mother that you say to your kids: Do you think that's a good decision? Have you thought this through? Who's going to pay for this?

We went to the Olive Garden for dinner tonight, because it's close, and because I know mom used to go there with her friend Marie for lunch after church on Sunday. Getting in and out of the restaurant was like one of the labors of Hercules. I was tempted to just sling her onto my back and carry her in; it would have made more sense. But she made a heroic effort, and, with the aid of a walker and my help, we finally got her situated at a table, and I finally got her out to the car after the meal was done. The food was mediocre, but the staff was attentive and helpful, so I won't be making any disparaging remarks about Olive Garden anytime soon. It was a good meal, and she enjoyed it.

Back at the nursing home, I sat on her bed and she in her wheelchair, and we talked. She grabbed my hand and sat there stroking it for a minute, as I talked about nothing, then she said, "I just want, at the end of my life, to be able to ...". It trailed off into nothing, and I sat there in silence, thinking, should I ask what she wants to do at the end of her life? But I know what she wants to do. She wants to hug her grandchildren. She wants to laugh a little, and be happy. She wants to sit on her couch and hear the familiar sound of the neighbor in his backyard next door, sawing wood and pounding nails, working on his latest project on a dull winter afternoon. She wants to go to church and sit through the sermon just to hear Rudy play the Bach postlude on the organ. And, after church, she wants to go to Steak 'N' Shake and have a milkshake. She wants some assurance that she hasn't been cut off, that she isn't adrift, as the end of her life draws closer.

I left soon after dropping her off, because I didn't know what more to say, and I needed a drink, and a cigarette, and I needed to be alone. It's not the most honorable thing in the world, but there it is. On the way out, I heard one woman in a wheelchair saying to another, "So nobody comes and visits you?" And even though I know myself, and I know my mom, and I know how much we care about each other, it was a tough drive home.