I was sad to hear about Whitney Houston’s death, but my feeling watching the 4-hour televised funeral was more than sadness. It registered more as a reminder and an awakening.
(To read the entire post, visit Story Charmer’s Waking Up Series.)
dance :: rhythm
It was 5 a.m. when the phone rang, waking me from my sleep. The voice on the other end was weak.
“Come downstairs,” she whispered.
Since moving in with my ailing mother, her middle-of-the-night hypoglycemic attacks have become a common occurrence. At the sound of the phone, I stumbled into a familiar routine. When I reached her bedroom, I found my 71-year-old mother sitting on her bed, slightly bent over and sweating profusely. She reached for an all-too-familiar lifeline – two glucose tablets, some orange juice and a towel. We sat and waited. It passed.
I climbed back into bed at 5:30, slipping in next to a snoring husband and a preschooler too young to honor the boundaries of my side of the family bed. I lay there thinking, If I could just close my eyes for a few minutes until…the alarm abruptly rang at 6, signaling the official beginning of my day.
We sold our house and moved in with Ma the year after she was diagnosed with End Stage Renal Disease. I remember visiting her in the hospital after one of her falls. She lay on the hospital bed in the intensive care unit talking about the messages written on the bulletin board in her room. The problem was that these messages were only visible to her. I watched as her doctors moved together like couples in a ballroom. I knew what the next step would be.
“Does your mom have psychotic episodes often?” one of the doctors asked.
“No,” I snapped. “She’s just very sensitive to all of the medicine she’s taking.”
The doctors paired off again. The nephrologist pivoted, turning her attention to me. With her best I really don’t have time for this tone she explained, “Since she has been falling, we don’t think she should live alone. You should either make arrangements to move in together or consider having her stay in a facility.”
I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. My mother’s fragile body gave her no warning of when her spongy lets would mislead her again, beckoning her to take that next step, only to leave her curled up on the floor. I was terrified that the next fall would kill her. But living in a nursing home would almost certainly kill her spirit. She was too vibrant and too brilliant for that fate.
“Will I ever get to be by myself?” she asked.
“Of course,” I quickly replied. But I could tell she wasn’t convinced.
Okay, we’ll move, I thought, resigned.
“Okay, that’ll be fine,” she said, resigned.
I worked hard to convince myself of the benefits.
Sure with my husband and two sons, there would be five of us packed into her beautiful, child-unfriendly house built for two, but we’ll figure it out. Moving in will be practical, I told myself. I’ll be able to help her. I’ll save money and in one year we’ll move into a place big enough for all of us to live comfortably. Besides, families have been caring for aging parents and young children for generations, long before the 20th century labeled us the “sandwich” generation.
It turns out I wasn’t entirely wrong, but I wasn’t entirely right either.
us :: them
Ma’s walker barely fit in the cramped office. I searched the charity administrator’s face for frown lines scrunched with judgment. I listened carefully to her voice for a condescending tone. I was preparing for battle, one to match my inner turmoil. But her eyes were compassionate. There would be no war.
As my mother spoke, my mind trailed off into the stories I wanted to tell — how just a few years ago I owned a small retail store. How responsible I was when I paid off my mortgage and paid the down payment for my mother’s house. Or my son’s trust fund that I’d managed for the past 10 years. I wanted her to know that we weren’t one of “them.”
Instead we told stories of a 75-year-old retiree, of bills that exceed a fixed income, and of cancer, dialysis and impossible choices – choosing between refilling cancer medication or paying a utility bill; too-high health insurance deductible or too-high premiums; between a daughter spending her time earning a paycheck or caring for her mother and children.
We told the stories of the masses, the working poor…them and us.
She carefully listened to our stories, the burdens we lay at her feet and the question laid on her heart — Can you help us?
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I, Witness 