Five Little Piggies, Mom, God, Death & the Big Bang

She kept asking for a gun, so I got her one. And one for me, too.

This little piggy hoarded pills

For as long as I can remember, Mom hoarded an assortment of pills: pain killers, anxiety meds, who knows what else. She was disappointed to learn barbiturates aren’t used in sleeping pills anymore¹, she’d been counting on that for years. A shopping bag of pills and not a single barbiturate.

The original plan. Disclaimer: not my actual mother.

And this little piggy wanted to get smashed

She was still living at the over-the-top-fancy assisted living when learned her pills would be useless when she decided it was “time.” She decided she’d run into traffic.

Not really much of a threat.

Be my guest, I say. Can I hold the door for you?

The street in question had four lanes of traffic, two in each direction. But, we’re located at a very long light. Also, it’s been a good long time since she’s gotten around without assistance, no less run anywhere.

She’s using either a rollator or what’s called a transporter chair²— really just a wheelchair with small wheels so without someone to push, it’s just a chair. She needs one or the other I remind her, so go, I say, run into traffic.

Picture this: Cars traveling along at 35 or 40 mph, while she toddles out, using her leopard print rollator, topping out at 5 or 6 feet a minute. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have to be consoling someone who accidentally hit and killed my mother when she “ran” into traffic.

Ray Charles could avoid hitting her.

Waiting happily to get smashed. (Disclaimer: Also not my actual Mom.)

This little piggy asked for a gun

Weeks later, still at the assisted living and we’re talking about face transplants and how yes, that is a real thing, like for people who try to shoot themselves in the head and don’t succeed. Maybe, she said—half to me, half to herself—I’ll myself in the head when the time comes. She’s not depressed, not at that moment. She just like having an exit strategy, a plan. When she asks for a gun I explain how it’s harder than you’d think to do it right. You’d think it would be pretty easy. It’s not. I show her photos of failed suicide attempts—what your face looks like when you don’t die. I can always count on Mom’s vanity. That idea gets scratched.

Until after she moved in with me, then it was back. Whenever I went out, I asked, Can get you anything. Her answer?

A gun. Get me a gun. I want to shoot myself.

She wouldn’t even stop playing cards or whatever she was doing. Same answer, and a giggle.

Still not my actual mother, but with the same fashion sense.

Finally, I came home with two water guns. For a long time we snuck up on each other, until we were both soaked, cracking up, maybe peeing a little.

Actual photo of us.

This little piggy worried about hell

She’d say this kind of stuff to get a rise out of me (but was serious about wanting to control when she died—those were different discussions). I’d tell her I thought I was gonna go to hell for laughing.

“You believe in hell?³ You really think there’s a man upstairs who interferes in your life and makes everything okay?”

Mom’s an atheist. A rabid atheist, willing to argue the point with anyone who will listen. Most people want to be closer to god as they age or ail. Not Ma. The closer she gets to the end, the more sure she is there is no afterlife, no god (little g), no God (capital g).

I don’t believe in a man upstairs. I don’t believe in upstairs. No punishment or interference. But I feel god everywhere, in everything. I wish I could give that to her, but faith is something you come to on your own.

“If it makes you happy, I’m glad, but smart people agree with me.”

She gets up from the kitchen chair, grabs the rollator, and toddles back to her bedroom to watch Judge Judy, Judge Faith, Judge Mathis, Traffic Court Judge Caprio (Caught in Providence), Judge Milan (People’s Court), Judge Toler (Divorce Court).

She doesn’t believe in god, but she does enjoy a good judgement.

Also, the Big Bang Theory⁴, which would be ironic if she could only remember the actual big bang theory as an argument against creationism.

I never get to explain how the Big Bang and god live together quite easily.

And this little piggy might never die.

My actual Mom, still very much alive. Disclaimer: No old ladies were harmed in the making of this essay.

We’ve had endless serious discussions about what end of life should look like and if and when it came to that, I was ready. But this was how I handled the casual “I’m going to kill myself” part of her dementia journey. I could have been wrong, but humor worked for us. What’s your experience been like, have you had to deal with this at all?

1. I get it. I’m miffed I missed out on cocaine in Coca-Cola, Laudanum (opium & alcohol) for headaches and Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescription that claimed to make weak women strong & sick women well, using alcohol & opium to cure nervousness, backache, headache, sleeplessness, mental anxiety, and despondency!

2. To her credit, eight years after this conversation, she’s still getting around with the rollator, albeit, mostly just back and forth between the bathroom and bedroom, but still.

3. I don’t except in the “hell is other people” sense of the word. Credit & thanks due: Sartre

4. Which she explains is a bunch of nerdy guys and the hot girl who lives next door, which pretty much sums it all up.