Right In The Feels
It’s 2008. We’ve spent a brutal year in a court room fighting for everything we have. It wasn’t enough and to make matters worse, it’s fractured my mother’s mind. It’s 3am and I’ve walked down to the farm kitchen where I find her standing in front of the stove. The burner is lit with a towel dangerously close to it, and there’s a teapot in the open microwave.
She’s mumbling to herself and when I quietly say her name she looks at me, but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes are vacant. She’s sleeping, and in her sleep decided to make tea. She’s nearly burned the house down, and when I touch her face to wake her, she starts to cry and asks me why we can’t stay here. We’re being evicted. I don’t have answers. So I turn the burner off and help her back to bed. She is never the same woman again.
It’s 2011. They couldn’t come to the wedding. My dad nearly had the widow-maker, and his heart surgery took too much out of him. My mother, always the strong leader, has withered. She cannot drive any longer, and she cannot control what’s happening to her. She’s going blind and her mind is slipping. Sometimes she can’t remember my name. Sometimes she can’t even remember hers. She stares blankly and talks about how gray the world is.
It’s 2016. She’s ill, very ill. Dad says she’s nearing the end and we should be prepared. She can’t find words. She can’t walk more than ten feet on her own. Even when awake she’s not “there”. They drive to come see us in Salem. Mom recalls nothing of her trip and blames sushi. All joking aside she honestly thinks that’s the cause of her memory lapse and not that she’s on Percocet powerful enough to kill a horse.
Each trip home is a gamble. It’s a risk. How far gone will she be now? How devastated will I be? How heart broken that my once fierce and defiant mother now can’t shuffle across a room?
And then, as if 2018 is determined to heal parts of me the world has charred, she’s bright and alert. She’s here. At least more here than she’s been in so long I can’t place a number on it. Her eyes are focused and clear and she doesn’t struggle to communicate.
I take her to the store, concerned she’ll be winded just walking to the motorized carts, but she insists I can park far from the door and she’ll walk in with a cart. She does. And she uses only that for the wandering.
I’m positive she’s already forgotten what I’ve told her of the kids in my life, but she hasn’t. She recalls them all by name without prompting. She remembers that K likes unicorns and that Little T likes science, and that R and Z like Minecraft. SHE REMEMBERED MINECRAFT DESPITE NOT EVEN KNOWING WHAT IT IS.
My heart is exploding in my chest for typing that.
She picks up holographic wallets and unicorn hats and a foam sword from a video game and asks about them more in depth. She’s thinking of them, they’ve reached her. She finds a little star gazing kit and asks if Little T likes that kind of thing. She finds a soft puppy stuffed animal and holds it to her face, saying “I bet R would like this.”
It was everything in me not to buy it right then, and I may yet go back and get it. I convince her that I’ll take them to a Walmart when I go back and pay attention to what they like. Then I’ll tell her and she can send on Christmas gifts. Her face fucking glows when I say that and she remembers that they call me Miss Julie.
“You can tell them your dad is Santa.” She’s not lying, he plays Santa and she plays Mrs Claus every year in this town. They arrive at the end of the parade on a fire truck. I may find a way to incorporate that without pushing the Santa thing too hard. Let them share the fun.
She’s bound and determined by the end to know them better. She looks through the pictures I have, she laughs at R-finger. K keeps her focus. When we get home she digs out my old step stool and hands it to me. “For little feet so they can wash their hands when they visit you.”
I can hardly breathe. I’ve been braced for impact, for pain, and in it’s place is joy.
I always say “I could die happy now” but this is different. I could live happy now. I found all these pieces of me in so many unexpected places. And I want to live it all.
She’s mumbling to herself and when I quietly say her name she looks at me, but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes are vacant. She’s sleeping, and in her sleep decided to make tea. She’s nearly burned the house down, and when I touch her face to wake her, she starts to cry and asks me why we can’t stay here. We’re being evicted. I don’t have answers. So I turn the burner off and help her back to bed. She is never the same woman again.
It’s 2011. They couldn’t come to the wedding. My dad nearly had the widow-maker, and his heart surgery took too much out of him. My mother, always the strong leader, has withered. She cannot drive any longer, and she cannot control what’s happening to her. She’s going blind and her mind is slipping. Sometimes she can’t remember my name. Sometimes she can’t even remember hers. She stares blankly and talks about how gray the world is.
It’s 2016. She’s ill, very ill. Dad says she’s nearing the end and we should be prepared. She can’t find words. She can’t walk more than ten feet on her own. Even when awake she’s not “there”. They drive to come see us in Salem. Mom recalls nothing of her trip and blames sushi. All joking aside she honestly thinks that’s the cause of her memory lapse and not that she’s on Percocet powerful enough to kill a horse.
Each trip home is a gamble. It’s a risk. How far gone will she be now? How devastated will I be? How heart broken that my once fierce and defiant mother now can’t shuffle across a room?
And then, as if 2018 is determined to heal parts of me the world has charred, she’s bright and alert. She’s here. At least more here than she’s been in so long I can’t place a number on it. Her eyes are focused and clear and she doesn’t struggle to communicate.
I take her to the store, concerned she’ll be winded just walking to the motorized carts, but she insists I can park far from the door and she’ll walk in with a cart. She does. And she uses only that for the wandering.
I’m positive she’s already forgotten what I’ve told her of the kids in my life, but she hasn’t. She recalls them all by name without prompting. She remembers that K likes unicorns and that Little T likes science, and that R and Z like Minecraft. SHE REMEMBERED MINECRAFT DESPITE NOT EVEN KNOWING WHAT IT IS.
My heart is exploding in my chest for typing that.
She picks up holographic wallets and unicorn hats and a foam sword from a video game and asks about them more in depth. She’s thinking of them, they’ve reached her. She finds a little star gazing kit and asks if Little T likes that kind of thing. She finds a soft puppy stuffed animal and holds it to her face, saying “I bet R would like this.”
It was everything in me not to buy it right then, and I may yet go back and get it. I convince her that I’ll take them to a Walmart when I go back and pay attention to what they like. Then I’ll tell her and she can send on Christmas gifts. Her face fucking glows when I say that and she remembers that they call me Miss Julie.
“You can tell them your dad is Santa.” She’s not lying, he plays Santa and she plays Mrs Claus every year in this town. They arrive at the end of the parade on a fire truck. I may find a way to incorporate that without pushing the Santa thing too hard. Let them share the fun.
She’s bound and determined by the end to know them better. She looks through the pictures I have, she laughs at R-finger. K keeps her focus. When we get home she digs out my old step stool and hands it to me. “For little feet so they can wash their hands when they visit you.”
I can hardly breathe. I’ve been braced for impact, for pain, and in it’s place is joy.
I always say “I could die happy now” but this is different. I could live happy now. I found all these pieces of me in so many unexpected places. And I want to live it all.
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