“Mom, you have to eat something.” I have made three things, and she won’t eat any of them.
“I need my coffee.”
“Ok, but you need to eat something.”
I bring her a cup of coffee. She takes one sip and makes a face like she just drank dirt.
“It needs sugar.”
“Mom, I put 2 packs of sugar in there.”
“I need more. Like 3 more packs.” I am looking at her like she is an alien.
“Ok, but what will you eat? You can’t just drink a cup of sugar. That’s why you have no energy,” or teeth, I kept to myself.
“Nothing tastes good anymore. Is there any avocado? Can I have some avocado with dressing on it?”
I take a deep breath and turn and walk the 5 steps to the kitchen fridge. I am trying not to hyperventilate.
One of Mom’s helpers comes in to check on her.
“Hi Ms. Barbara, how are you doing this morning?”
“Everything hurts. Are you all going to do something about my foot hurting? It won’t stop. Why won’t you help me?”
“Ms. Barbara, you had your pain pill this morning. It should be helping.”
“It’s not. I don’t understand why you won’t help me.”
“Ms. Barbara, you know we are taking care of you. Let me check with the nurse and see if there is anything else we can do.”
I jump in. “Thank you. I know y’all are taking great care of her.”
Before she is even out of earshot, Mom says, “They are not taking care of me. My leg and foot never stop hurting.”
Here is the part I don’t say out loud. Her leg probably does hurt. All the time. I know that, and I hate that for her. I just can’t help but think of the one time she went for an actual walk around the block with my dad. She brought a cigarette and two Oreos.
“Well, Mom, they aren’t doctors. They can only give you what has been prescribed. You need to walk. The more you don’t get up and move, the worse it will get. Do you still have PT coming?”
“Who’s coming? Those people that are trying to kill me? My leg hurts, and they want me to do all of these exercises. They are not helping me. They are mean to me.”
I shake my head.
“What?”
“They are trying to help, I promise. Here is your avocado. Please eat all of this. Dinner isn’t for a couple of hours, and you didn’t eat any of the lunch they brought.”
My phone rings. I see my sister’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, you sound frustrated.”
“That is one of the adjectives to describe it. Can I call you when I leave here?”
“What Mom? It’s Brenda. Yes, she is coming later. No, I’m not leaving yet. We’re going to play cards. You wanted to play rummy, right?”
“Oh yes. But tell Brenda to come over. That I don’t have anything to do.”
“Yes, you do, Mom. You have me to entertain you right now. Brenda is coming later.”
I remove the plate with the 5 bites of avocado she ate. And shuffle the cards.
An hour later, I walk out of the building. I find my speed picking up the closer I get to the door.
Like if I move fast enough, the anxiety will fall off as I hit the outdoor air.
I get in my car and take a deep breath. This is crazy. Nothing happened, really. How can I be so anxious?
“Lord, please, please, please help me not do this to myself.”
I dial my sister’s number.
“Oh my God. Just kill me if I get like this. I am not kidding. She won’t eat anything except sugar. She won’t get up and move… at all. She doesn’t even pay attention between turns in Rummy 500. And she is so mean to the poor caregivers.” I don’t stop to take a breath.
Brenda jumps in. “I took her to the doctor yesterday. She has to go to an appointment to get a refill on her pain pills. She starts asking the pain doctor about her UTI… the part that was so hard was getting her to his office. If she went any slower we’d be going backwards.”
“I am about to have a nervous breakdown. Seriously. Remember the last time she was like this? She ended up in the hospital. It started with a UTI. Then they mess up all her meds. And she never just comes back to her apartment. She ends up in rehab. I think every time she goes there, she isn’t ever going to leave. We need to keep her out of there.” I hear panic. It’s mine.
Now my sister is sighing heavily. “Well, I feel bad for her. She never leaves her apartment. I go and ask the caregivers to come get her and bring her to things, and she tells them no. She needs to do stuff. Be around people.”
We rapid-cycle through every fear we have about Mom and every fear we have about becoming her.
I hang up. I still feel like my chest is in a vise grip. I turn up the music and sing loud enough to stamp out all thoughts.
The next morning I am in the Hyper Fitness parking lot at 5:52. It is still dark. I am sitting in the car adding to my grocery list. Salmon. Spinach. Blueberries. The turmeric I keep forgetting.
Nicole is inside setting up the kettlebells.
“You booked this one late,” she says. “You usually book out a week.”
“I signed up at a red light yesterday.”
“That’s a first.”
“I was at my mother’s.”
She is dragging a rower into the second row, and she doesn’t look up. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s in a wheelchair. She won’t eat anything but sugar. She won’t get up and move.” I hear my own voice go up. “I keep telling her, if you don’t move it only gets worse, and she looks at me like I’m the one being unreasonable.”
“That’s rough.”
“I’m not doing that.” I put my water down harder than I mean to. “I’m not doing that to my kids.”
“You won’t. You’re here, aren’t you?” she says with the confidence of twenty-six.
People start coming in. Mary comes in last, like she always does. She is in her seventies, her hair done at six in the morning. She gets on the treadmill next to me and asks how my grandbabies are. She does the whole class modified and laughs at herself out loud through every round of burpees.
We start. I push myself hard today. I need to keep up with all of these people ten or twenty years younger.
Nicole stops behind my rower.
“Sue. Don’t forget to breathe.”
I am trying.
Afterward, Mary is wiping down her rower, still laughing about the burpees.
“Mary,” I say, “you are my hero.”
She waves me off.
“I’m serious. I want to be you one day.”
“Oh, honey.” She hangs her towel over her shoulder. “You already are.”
I hope so.
