She's On Her Way

He stares at her, wrinkled ankles, wrinkled wrists and neck, lying on the sofa, unable to make herself comfortable sitting, so she stands, with difficulty, both hands on a tv table to keep from falling over, in close-to-ninety-degree bent-over position, but that hurts too so she sits back down, shifts, lies down, struggles up, sits back down.

He watches. His own doctor told him the other day "you can't be your parent's parent. She's the mom, you're the son. It doesn't work for either of you to do it any other way. Just try to help."

So he offers encouragement, helps with an arm or a hand, sees how her mornings progress, her noons, her afternoons. It wouldn't matter if she could make herself comfortable, because once that would happen she would have to immediately leave the moment behind, struggle again to her feet, grab her cane for one arm and him for the other, to toddle over to the bathroom. When she's like this she seems to need that bathroom every ten minutes.

So count 'em up. How many hours do we all get? How many of hers are fully occupied with standing up, sitting down, lying down, getting up again and walking to the bathroom?

There are three bathrooms in the house and she has colonized two of them. Hers is filled with ointments, boxes of things, bags of things, bottles of pills, brightly colored pain killers, happy little tubes of unguents and merry big tubes of ointments, rolls of toilet paper and boxes of kleenex and packs of gauze, iodine, hydrogen peroxide. Now there's a nonskid rubber rug. This room is off limits.

The small powder room off the living room is hers to use too because if she's near it she'll go into it and it doesn't matter if you're already in there or not. So the powder room is off limits too unless she's asleep. And even then.

So everyone else must use the back bathroom. There, the toilet is broken.

Toilet World: The Ultimate Theme Park.

You have to remember to bend down and turn on the water to the tank before you sit down. If you forget, you'll rise, pull up your pants, hit the flush lever and nothing will happen. You'll remember you were supposed to not forget to turn on the water first, but you did forget, so you'll scream FUCKING FUCKING TOILET!, the volume depending on how many times you've done this already in the last two days, then you'll bend down to the floor, turn on the water, wait eternally for the tank to fill, then hit the flush lever, listen to the water emptying, then reach over and turn off the water again, so the next person, who VERY WELL MIGHT BE YOU AGAIN, can repeat the whole process.

If it's your wife, it's fun to listen to, but if it's you it just makes you want to cry.

If you don't turn off the water to the toilet, the toilet will fill, flush, fill, flush, fill, flush, fill, flush. All night long. No, you can't fix the toilet in Toilet World. Your bedroom is next to that bathroom. Fill. Flush. Fill. Flush. Fill. Flush.

"Darling, did you forget to turn off the water?"
"Sweetie, I think you used it last."
"No, lamb chop, I didn't."
"Well, fuck face, it wasn't me."
"Yes, it goddamwell was."
"I ain't moving."
"Fucking fucking toilet."

Toilet World, Tickets are Free.

What has happened? You were here exactly four weeks ago, when she fell. You and your wife helped her to her feet, called the paramedics, got her into the ambulance and followed it down to St. Joseph's and the ER, stayed with her all night in the whitecoated bizarrely-lit tri-initialed world of EMT, MRI, CRT, CPR, with artwork on every wall trying to make this cold and efficient place look like a day care center, water colors done by healthy and happy seven year olds, bright yellow suns and deep green trees, while the intercom crackles with STAT! EMT TO STATION TWO KIDNEY RNF BRAIN WJY STAT!

The next morning after they'd patched her up and did all the tests, and she was banged up, but she was still her, you got to take her home. She was weak but knew how lucky she'd been.

So who took that lady away? That was just four weeks ago. She was old and forgetful then but now it's a month later and she is ancient and immobile. Her helper says she's getting better -- you should have seen her two weeks ago.

But you saw her four weeks ago. Does it happen this fast?

The house used to stink of cigarettes. Now she hasn't had a smoke in a week. Can you believe that? Maybe that's why she's feeling so bad.

NO JOKE!

"Mom," you say. "I know it's weird for you to hear me say this, but...wouldn't you like a cigarette?"

"I would," she says.

"Then you've got to get out of bed. You can't smoke lying in bed. I'll walk with you out to the back patio."

"You're telling me I should smoke more?" she says.

OK, she hasn't lost irony.

"Now I might have a heart attack," she says.

Your doctor went through it with both of his parents. He said his mom kept having "interfarctal occult strokes," which boils down to tiny strokes you can't see or really measure, and which by themselves don't amount to much, but if they keep occurring, which they do, they add up to a lot. The brain can only process so many, and the older you are, the harder it is to recover.

"She's almost 97," the doctor says, with a look on his face that says "After all!" when he wanted it to say "There, there" or "It's all right."

But you don't feel like it's all right. It's all wrong. Not that someone who has managed to keep her feet on the earth this many years shouldn't be showing the results by now, but it isn't happening like you thought.

You're somewhat of a veterano. You saw a dad and two stepdads do this. You can't remember the first -- he went into a room, you think, and didn't come out. The second involved months of hospitals and he didn't come out either. The third made more sense -- he was old, he was ready, his heart was going to fail, everybody knew it, and then it did. The Chief's whole life was orderly and so was his goodbye.

She, of course, was there for all three husbands and did her best to shield your brother and you from reality. She was companion and nurse to three strong men who came into her life vibrant and excited and together they traveled the world. And then, boom. She went through this three times and kept you from most of it. Don't forget this.

She lies on the sofa.

"Honey, I can't tell you how much I appreciate you and Barbara coming here this weekend."

"Mom, it's Thursday."

"It is?"

Yes, it is. Earlier this afternoon, as she slept, with her mouth wide open in that scary way that looks so much like the Chief's last years, you kept looking at your watch.

"What time is it?" your wife would ask, sitting next to you.

You smile. You and she remember when you packed up stakes in Pennsylvania and drove to L.A. with your baby boy and whatever stuff you owned, ready to start a new life in California. The trip through the Mojave Desert is like no other. Every single road sign says:

"Barstow 130 miles."

You drive four more hours, through the absolute and endlessly stultifying rock and sand mono-color moonscape and there, in the distance, finally, is another road sign.

"Barstow 130 miles."

Time doesn't just stop in the Mojave Desert, it deflates.

You look at your watch, at your mom asleep across from you, at the familiar paintings above her, at the shimmering sun on the patio, at your wife.

"Barstow," you say.

"130 miles," she says.

You've got to leave in a few hours but they may take years. You and your wife have been racing around all day talking to bankers, trying to put in motion the processes of getting your mom's bills paid should she continue to be unable to even sign a check.

"No problem," they say. "Just bring your dear mom into the branch, the sweetheart, does she still know who she is? Yes? Oh, that's so sweet, all right, just bring her in and we'll..."

"No," I say, "I told you she can't come into the branch. She can't go into the kitchen. That's why we're here."

"96 years old? Oh how cute. Anyway, no problem. Just bring your mom into the branch and we'll..."

You'll what? You want to come up with me to Toilet World? What are you not hearing?

Mom wakes up and seems a lot better. You can see it. She has color in her cheeks and to your delight she immediately criticizes someone else in the family, first, and then you.

"Mom, you're back!" you say.

You hold her hand as she lies on the sofa. She seems clear, you can feel it, like the chemical veil has lifted. Maybe the painkillers have worn off.

"Mom," you say. "Look. I've spent some nights wide awake, these past few months, worrying about you, hoping you're getting better, feeling far far away."

"I know," she says.

"But I also know that I have never in my life spent one night, not one, with anywhere close to the worries you have had to go through, for hundreds of nights, never, not even once."

I knock three times on the coffee table.

"Knock glass," she says.

"Knock glass," I say.

"Do one for me," she says.

This is the equivalent of mom's own mom spitting over her shoulder to defeat the evil eye. It worked then, it'll work now. Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Knock glass."

"And thanks for saying that," she says. "Honey, we just do what we have to. You can't change things."

I nod. She squeezes my hand. Then she says "Do you know why Paula never calls me any more?"

"MOM!" I shout, pleased as punch. Barb lights up too. "Rose!" she shouts. We are both so happy. Paula, my sis-in-law, was just here two days ago and has been breaking her ass to try and take care of Mom.

Mom's back.

"Honey, you know, I think I'm feeling better," she says. "Listen, I've got to use the bathroom. Don't help me. I think I can do this by myself."

It's like watching your child take her first steps. Next thing you know, she's on her way.