"Can you stand still?" I ask my
mother.
"I am standing still," she quips. I realize from her tone that it's going to be that kind of day. A bindi day, a constantly having to breathe it out my fore head kind of day.
"I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need help." I look down at her. She looks up at me, smiling. I'm not convinced.
"This stuff is supposed to help your knees." She's got arthritis and I'm trying to help her gain more mobility.
"We're not spring chickens anymore, mum. We've got to oil the ol' joints so they'll function properly." She stands still so that I am able to finish applying the goop.
"It isn't fun getting old," she quietly states.
"No, it isn't. But, whoever promised that it would be?" How the tables have turned. Here I am issuing the platitudes. She shrugs, as I once did.
"At least you've got your mind intact."
We both know the weight of these words. Her husband is declining in the late stages of Alzheimer's. She is lately come to the realization that for most of their marriage, he's been suffering from it. She used to say that it was often hard to tell what was the disease and what was her hubby being himself. Now she knows that for as long as she's known him, he's not necessarily been himself. Now that he's been placed in an assisted living facility, and often doesn't recognize us, life is slowly taking on a whole new meaning.
So, I grease her up well so that's she'll be ready for whatever the day brings. We two biddies living on the beach, each with our hats and our baskets and our books. Looking out to sea, searching the shore for treasures. Me, in my string bikini, and this ol' lady who creaks when she walks as if she's been stranded out in the forest like the rusted tin man all these years. With any luck, she'll soon be dancing down the yellow brick road.
Guess I'll get my sister to inform her that the wizard's a fraud.
"I am standing still," she quips. I realize from her tone that it's going to be that kind of day. A bindi day, a constantly having to breathe it out my fore head kind of day.
"I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need help." I look down at her. She looks up at me, smiling. I'm not convinced.
"This stuff is supposed to help your knees." She's got arthritis and I'm trying to help her gain more mobility.
"We're not spring chickens anymore, mum. We've got to oil the ol' joints so they'll function properly." She stands still so that I am able to finish applying the goop.
"It isn't fun getting old," she quietly states.
"No, it isn't. But, whoever promised that it would be?" How the tables have turned. Here I am issuing the platitudes. She shrugs, as I once did.
"At least you've got your mind intact."
We both know the weight of these words. Her husband is declining in the late stages of Alzheimer's. She is lately come to the realization that for most of their marriage, he's been suffering from it. She used to say that it was often hard to tell what was the disease and what was her hubby being himself. Now she knows that for as long as she's known him, he's not necessarily been himself. Now that he's been placed in an assisted living facility, and often doesn't recognize us, life is slowly taking on a whole new meaning.
So, I grease her up well so that's she'll be ready for whatever the day brings. We two biddies living on the beach, each with our hats and our baskets and our books. Looking out to sea, searching the shore for treasures. Me, in my string bikini, and this ol' lady who creaks when she walks as if she's been stranded out in the forest like the rusted tin man all these years. With any luck, she'll soon be dancing down the yellow brick road.
Guess I'll get my sister to inform her that the wizard's a fraud.
No comments:
Post a Comment