Last year, she scared the hell out of us, and I realized the extent to which I take her for granted. As of this very moment, I'm house sitting/cat sitting/plant sitting/turtle sitting for her. There's a whole lot of sitting involved at Mom's place, and I have to catch myself when I start resenting that this responsibility falls in my lap every couple of months. I have to catch myself when I start feeling taken for granted. There's a little of that, sure. Of course there is, but I have to stop and consider how many times Mom has saved my ass. Granted, there's a whole other psychological and experiential history to all of this that I could start picking apart (and I have), and Mom and I certainly have our differences (and equally relationship-stunting similarities), but it boils down to this: she's doing the best she can, given her experience and I'm doing the best I can, given mine. We get hung up sometimes in our own versions of the truth, pride, anxiety, and moods, losing sight of the spectrum of perspectives, but in the end we both want the same things: for all parties to be healthy, happy, and secure.
Right now, as I sit at her dining room table writing this entry, I am acutely aware of the comfort I feel in her house. I remember that I am responsible for it when she is away because it is my home too, and I am grateful. This home is alive with her, and it's difficult to wrap my thoughts around the notion that she's winding down. She is what makes it home. Her open arms maintain this open door and this safe harbor.
Her mom, my grandmother, died after an extended, painful bout with cancer in her early--maybe mid--seventies. I didn't know her well, despite seeing her every Christmas. They weren't the most hands-on of grandparents and my primary memory of her has her sitting at her desk in front of the bright window in her bedroom. In my memory, she is always writing in her journal, smoking a cigarette. I am intentionally leaving out the more interesting, human details of this memory, because to include these would be to paint a less than flattering picture of her that wouldn't do justice to the dignity, grace, and poise that seemed to be woven intricately into her character. She and my grandfather, both, had a strong presence.
As I said, though, I didn't know her well, and beyond this memory, hers was my first introduction to death. I was around 12 years old and I remember only a few things about that time: that she was ready to die, and I was told she cried every morning she woke up, still in pain, still incapacitated. I remember that she didn't want pain medication because, even on her death bed, she didn't want to find herself addicted. I can only guess that part of this notion was not wanting her mental capacities to be as broken down and useless as her body felt. She still had her mind and her pride, and she wasn't about to give those up with everything else.
I also remember feeling bad that I didn't feel much. I thought I should be crying, but it didn't feel like my loss. It was everyone else's. It was a loss for those who were connected to her, and my only connection was one of blood, not heart. Now that I'm an adult, I feel the absence more I think. It's a curiosity, though. Not pain. I imagine she was an interesting person: tough, funny, beautiful, exciting and enchanting... but I don't know about loving or nurturing or tender or understanding. This woman that I never really knew is one of the infinite influences to the ins and outs, the quirks, the personality, and the character that comprises Mom. But, there we start going into the psychological stuff. It's interesting and it helps us navigate our relationship, but for the sake of this post, I'd rather just look at Mom. Does it matter what the individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle look like, once it's put together? Nope.
Anyhow, Mom is coming up on her 66th birthday, and while she's very healthy, alive, and kicking (and building things, and gardening, and working, and painting, and playing tennis, and maintaining a general state of almost constant movement) she's made no bones about preparing for her eventual and inevitable departure from this world. My grandmother was also active and full of life, as I understand it, right until she got sick; and Mom has brought up the fact that she is nearing the age my grandmother was when she passed.
Whatever time we have left, whether it's 5 years or 45, and however we treat and see each other, whatever our differences, mistakes, hang ups, hold ups, blind spots, or misdirections... I'm grateful. I hope our time is longer, rather than shorter. I hope our bags don't pollute too much of our interactions. I hope we laugh more than we argue. And, I hope the Monsters, my infant niece and her soon-to-arrive baby brother, get a chance to personally know the magical, loving, nurturing, hands-on grandmother she is. I appreciate every day she continues to fly, spin, and buzz past go.
