How's Mom, They Ask ?

What you want to hear is not what I want to say.

You ask, How’s Mom?

I think what you really mean is: I know you’re dealing with a shit ton with your Mom, and I care about that and you and have no idea what I should say when I see you, but I know I should say something.

That’s nice. I know you care. I do.
I just don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to answer that question.

You want me to say:
It’s all good.
We’re okay.
You know, and shrug my shoulders.
It is what it is.

You don’t want to hear how it’s really going.

The disease, as I’ve said before, only goes in one direction.
And it’s going really, really slow.

But, you ask, How’s Mom?

I think what you really mean, and don’t know how to say is:
Is your Mom still alive?
Does she still live with you or have you moved her to a nursing home yet?

When I say, she’s still kicking, you say,
Yeah, I was afraid to ask.

I get it, there really is no polite way to ask someone if their person who is dying of whatever, has finished dying and is now, ya know, dead.

You say you were afraid to ask.

You mean, you don’t know how to talk about death. To me. Maybe not to anyone. But me? Me and Mom? We’ve been looking at it, waiting for it. It’s not a matter of if, but of when and how.
We’ve been talking about this since I was a kid.
Since before dementia & cancer (hers). Before addiction & alcoholism (mine).

When is it going to come, I wonder to myself

When she got Covid, is this it?
No, that lasted 36 hours.

When she had pneumonia?
When she slept so much we all called her Coma Mommy?
When she broke her back and they wouldn’t operate?
When she had cancer, or the five times she had cancer after that?

Nope, still here.

You want me to make it easy for you

When you ask, How’s Mom?
You want me to let you off the hook.
Fuck that noise.
I’m already taking care of her, a special needs cat, and treading water to care for myself.
Her old friends tell me how much they miss her. And I can hear the tears in their words.
Well, I’m sorry, old friend, you’re feeling sorry for your loss, not for her or for me, but she’s not dead yet, and I’m at capacity. I cannot take care of your feelings on top of all that.

You don’t want me to tell you that I monitor and log how often she shits.
And eats. How long she sleeps. Any little bruise or discoloration.
Honestly, I’m mostly too tired to go into those details anyway, so you’re off the hook.

Ask me how I am.

I’ll tell ya, I’m tired. Bone tired. Guantanamo Bay tired. Three day cocaine binge tired.

I started going to Zumba and Swim Class and Salsa lessons.
I am not normally a let’s move person, I’m a why can’t we just lay here on the couch kinda gal.
You know why I love those classes? For that hour, whichever hour it is, I don’t have to think. My phone is away and the sound is off. I’m not responsible for a single decision. For one hour each of those days, someone tells me exactly what to do, and I do it.
Drink some water. Okay, I drink some water.
Move like this. I move like that.
Bubble, bubble, bubble when your face is in the water. I bubble, bubble, bubble.
It’s bliss. Fucking bliss. Five hours a week I’m not obligated to anyone or anything.

How can I help, you ask?

More often you say, You know if you need anything….

I do. I need anything.
Figure out how to take a few decisions off my shoulders.
Open-ended questions and offers are nice, but they also put the onus on me, again.
I don’t want the onus. Keep your onuses.

I’m decisioned out. Even feeding myself involves a decision.
Where do you want to eat? I don’t know. I can’t even.
It’s easier to go home to a PB& J, or grab a few slices of turkey and some grapes, or a bowl of popcorn.
Seamless gift certificates are nice, but still, I’m required to make a decision.

Bring me a meal I can reheat.
Something I can eat without having to decide anything.
Soup in Tupperware.
Leftover lasagna.
I’m not fancy, I’m burnt out.

I’m not complaining. I’m really not. I love that you care enough to remember what’s going on here.

I just really don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that question.
Those questions.
How are you?
I’m tired, fucking tired.
How’s Mom?
Well, she’s not dead yet, if that’s what you’re asking.

How’re you?

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