I started this post in February. Pre-Pandemic, pre-George Floyd, pre-whatever next phase Mom, the world, and the future of either are currently in. But I need to tell you then–4 months ago, before I can tell you how drastically and quickly life and priorities can change
What are you going to do now? she says.
After spending twenty years drunk and stoned, during which time I never planned anything more complicated than the next drink—and having spent the last eight hours at work as the Ops Mgr (when there were still offices to go to, and subways to ride, and homes you could leave for eight hours) of a nonprofit where I am responsible for planning a lot, but luckily not everything, about the office and facilities, the last thing I want when I come home is to have to know what I’m doing next.
I walk in the door, kiss my mother, remove my coat, say good night to the aide rushing out the door. I turn around, and…
– What are you doing now?
– I just got home.
– Aren’t you going to have something to eat? You have to eat something.
– I will, I just want to sit for a second.
– What are you doing after that?
– I don’t know, Ma. What do you want to do?
– Whatever you want.
-Do you want to watch TV/play cards/help me feed the cats?
We finish playing cards/feeding the cats/watching Family Feud:
– What are you doing now?
– I don’t know.
– Aren’t you doing to have something to eat? You have to eat something.
– I ate, Ma.
– I don’t remember that. So, what are you doing now?
– I don’t know.
We play cards, and when we finish:
– What are you doing now?
– I don’t know, watch TV and relax?
– In my room?
– No, Ma, in the living room.
She wobbles off to play on her computer, just slightly miffed that I don’t want to spend more time with her, just outside the french doors to the living room, where I can see her, hear her talking to the various cats, see that she is stuck—unable to remember how to get the online jigsaw puzzle to go full screen, or remember how to make the pieces smaller, or baffled by a pop-up. And she can see me on the couch. That is us, apart.
– What are you watching?
Every week I try—unsuccesfully—to simplify the plot of (in not particular order): Orphan Black, The Messiah, Grace & Frankie, Ray Donovan, Sex Education, BoJack Horseman, Pose, Sabrina, Shameless, Shitt’s Creek, The End of the Fucking World, Ozark, Altered Carbon, The Handmaid’s Tale, The Deuce, Killing Eve
When I stand up for any reason in the evening:
– Are you going to bed?
– No, Ma.
– You should, you have to get some sleep. Did you have something to eat?
I envisioned lots of things that could be problematic when I said come live with me, becoming one half of conjoined twins–attached at the heart–was not one of them. She needs to know what I am doing because she is losing/has lost the ability to think of things she’d like to do without outside prompting.
In a life where nothing is certain, I am an anchor. In any given day she will:
- forget who the aides are
- forget who I am
- struggle to tell the difference between waking life and dreams
- be unable to remember
- her friends,
- her life,
- that she just had a handful of cookies and that’s why the box is empty.
She recognizes her furniture but not always where her bedroom is. Memories of her mother are gone. Of her husband. Everything you think of as your life up to this moment? Imagine that, but gone. She lives in this moment and for the moment I come home from work because even if she forgets I am her daughter, that I am Jodi, that those two things are one and the same, she knows I protect her. She is free to be herself when I am there. I am a safe place she can let go of having to be an elegant lady. She exhales. She also farts and burps and I am the only one she will laugh hysterically with over that.
What if I hadn’t gotten sober in time for this? If I was still drunk. If I had died any of those times I could/should have. I am her whole world in a completely other way than when I was born and her life revolved around taking care of the new baby. She is the new baby in this equation.
Big Edie wonders aloud, on a regular basis, what she would do without me. I’ve heard her say the same thing to and about one of the aides. Hashtag humility
She is my primary intimate emotional relationship. Possibly Probably I’m sure she’s the reason I don’t feel the need for romantic partner. That soul hole that craves love, tenderness and human touch is filled to capacity. It overflows. One would wonder, how I stuff as much food inside me as I do what with that overflowing of the soul hole. You’d think I’d be full already.
I wonder, on a regular basis, what will it be like, what I will be like when she is gone.
I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone, she says.
No, you won’t, Ma.
You’ll miss me when I’m gone, she says.
I will. She thinks I’m joking when I tell her I’m having her cremated so I can carry her with me wherever I go. I’ll put her a pretty container (always well-dressed, why should that end just because life does?), continue to look after her and I’m sure I’ll hear her asking: What are you going to do now?
As usual, I am wrecked in the best possible way by your writing, Jodi. No, not just the writing, but by the truth and compassion and self-knowledge in what you’re saying. I never had the courage or the clarity to write about this when I was going through something similar with my mom, but please know that the recognition I feel in reading your words is profound, and I’m grateful for it. (That’s one of the worst sentences I’ve written in a while, but I hope and trust you’ll get it.)
You couldn’t write a bad sentence if your life depended on it. Thank you for always checking in. Truth be told, I don’t have the courage not to write about this and it is only in writing about it that I get any clarity whatsoever. Love.
Oh, wow. You’ve captured something special with this one. Siamese twins joined at the heart, indeed. Thanks for putting this out there – Abe
Thank you, Abe. #humbled
You are unapologetically going right for the gut, and you find it. This is both terrifying and gorgeous in its storytelling power. Thank you for sharing this glimpse with us.
And thank you for reading, for being my witness.
Jodi, this is beautiful. I love the relationship you have with your mom. I know it’s so hard, and you are amazing.
Judy, it means so much to me that you know us both. She really enjoyed her time with you, and I remember you showing up on the second day with lipstick on! She is a force to be reckoned with, and you met it head on.
Powerful. Touches my heart. Blessings.
Lou, thank you. You have a special heart.
This really hit me deeply. Took me a while to recover. Unapologetically candid, compassionate…incredibly moving. Your relationship is so beautiful, your writing just stunning. Thank you Jodi.
Thank you, darling B. It means a lot to me. All of us are in that place of caring for those who cared for us and it is never easy, even when it is.