I’d started a post about living with a constant, overwhelming shadow. One that wanted to know what I was doing; what I was going to do next, where I was going, and whether I’d eaten or not. My Big Edie shadow was driving me crazy. It seemed there was not a single moment at home I wasn’t questioned, scrutinized, or accompanied.
That was then, That was when Big Edie had aides coming in during the day to play cards and music, take her for walks, cook, and keep her company during meals. When she had a therapist who came twice a week–that nice young woman who comes “just to talk.” When a day at the senior center (with its abundance of old men) could be a weekly event. When I had an office to go to, a place outside of the house for at least ten hours a day, and 12-step meetings to go to on weekends. That was life P.C. Pre-COVID 19.
Today is Day 7 of working from home (WFH), of online 12-step meetings strictly, of no one else to be there for her other than me. Social distancing is our new normal. I’d always considered myself her sole caregiver, but it’s become very apparent that that was not exactly accurate. There were aides, therapists, social workers, random alter kakers.
https://jel.jewish-languages.org/words/15
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AlterKocker
Now, it’s all me. And the occasional phone call from someone she loves but cannot remember.
She occasionally forgets who I am in the morning, the evening, or when she’s just woken up in the afternoon, and I’m here all the time. She has known me for sixty-two years. I worry when the self-isolation is lifted, she’ll have forgotten her aides completely and bringing them back will mean starting all over again. Maybe that will be a good thing, and she will forget that one annoys her a little.
Even without this worldwide panic, she’s gotten worse. She’s weaker and her back hurts more. She walks less, sleeps more. Gets up later, goes to bed earlier. I feel guilty enjoying the free time when she sleeps. Time to write this. To poop without interruption. To read. To watch an actual movie. To talk on the phone. I feel guilty, but I do it all anyway.
Being the only two in our home means finding entertainment. She doesn’t remember having seen every episode of all nine seasons of Everybody Loves Raymond or The Good Place–many times in the last year and a half. She does know she’s bored by both at this point, yet she can’t follow anything with multiple storylines, cop shows with scenes that are barely lit (It’s dark! It’s dangerous! It’s a cop show!), anyone speaking with any accent (other than Long Island or the Bronx). The news is confusing and they speak too fast. Nature shows elicit a “Why are we watching this?” Movies? The storylines are too long. Closed captions? Too small and too fast for her to read.
Today we’ll clean off the front of my refrigerator, which I love and she hates despite my already having removed at least a third of the crapola that was there. I’ma let her win this battle.
We will make brownies, even though there is already apple strudel, five boxes of cookies, two boxes of “This Apple Walks into a Bar,” a box of assorted kind bars, three pounds of grapes, and two gallons of ice cream in the house.
We will fill out the census online
In an effort to help her feel like a “full person” I will place the apple cider jug on the table at dinner, and suggest she pour herself a glass. And I will make the mistake of not turning around when she says, “This bottle?,” but turn around just in time to see steady pumping green hand-sanitizer into her glass.
I will introduce her to the wonders of Facetime and my friends.
I will watch three of the four fucking hours of The Sound of Music because the music is familiar to her, before she finally says, “This is boring, can you finish watching it tomorrow. I’m going to go to bed.” I have hated The Sound of Music since 1965. From the very moment of Maria’s first mountaintop twirl, I have wanted to punch Julie Andrews in the face and it has ruined everything else she has done for me. Like a red hot branding iron, the site of her saccharin spinning and singing was seared into my brain. I know every word to every song in the movie. And I hate them all. Three hours. That’s how much I love my mother. That is how far I will go to entertain her. This is Love in the time of Corona(virus). And I would have gone the full four.
