Motherhood

"You do not have a forgiving heart" her son says to a woman whom he stole from, lied time and time and time again to, repeated the same old broken down stories. "I don't want to live like this anymore" I want to be trusted" I'm not doing drugs" "I've changed" and she believed him an helped him time and time and time again. He used her over and over and she tried to be there for him no matter what like the abused loving the abuser. He had her in fear for her life. He told her he was going to burn down her house if she tried to make him leave. The same words the same stories.
He comes home amped up, talking laughing a mile a minute. He sleeps all the time then has these crying spells big ridiculous tears rolling down his face frolicking in some type of pseudo-emotional episode.
She always believes him, always trusts him. He has no care. I do not believe him for a second. I see through his masks.
She gets mad at me for not trusting him, thinks I should forgive and forget, thinks I should forget how he treated her, how he used the same words on me. " God forgives, why can't you?" Right before he threatened to gut my boyfriend. Right before he told me how he got his revenge on people. There is something dark and cold there.

Cracks

She never throws away anything that gets broken. She gather all the pieces and sits and tries to glue them back together. She arranges the pieces this way and that way like assembling a glass or clay puzzle. Each piece treated as if a relic from some hazy ancient yet relevant past. When all the pieces are not there, she will fashion missing pieces out of clay and then the cracks that remain. She talks of how ugly her hands have become, how bent her index finger has gotten. She says my father had the most beautiful hands for a man. She says E has beautiful hands too and that he wakes up her skin when he touches her. Last night, on the eve of his birthday she was in bed with him and she teased him. "God almighty" (he hates using the Lords name in vain)"I never thought id be married to a 91 year old man! I thought 60 was ancient."

Economically Agravating

She's mad all the time now. His lack of concern for anything but what he thinks is important has taken its toll. He spends hundreds of dollars a month on books and pills that he never opens. They are stacked on the chair, on the table and they fill a brown paper bag on the floor. There nondescript white and yellowish brown wrappers contain no clue to the contents within. The cabinets are stuffed with white plastic bottles of brain enhancers, colon health, blood cleaners, prostrate health, and energy boosts. No bottles are ever opened, no books are ever read.
He eats at the same restaurant every day. He wakes up, dresses and then uses the fact that my mom isn't dressed as an excuse not to take her. She doesn't want to go anyway. She doesn't want to eat the same food all the time. He doesn't want to explore new options because they aren't better and are not "economical". He,also, thinks that eating at his favorite place cured his bladder cancer. The doctor, obviously, had nothing to do with it. The doctor just wants to make him suffer through painful expensive procedures out of morbid curiosity. Eating salmon, tempura, and rice is what did it.
She's mad all the time. He says he has no money to help out, but he spends all this money on internet scams. She sits with him for hours at doctors and hospitals, wearing herself out walking, worrying that he doesn't listen to a word they say. He acts all panicked that he needs to go but he doesn't follow a word of what they say. He fills their prescriptions, too, then doesn't take them either. She stresses over his actions. She worries that he doesn't follow their treatments. He is la de da. She is mad all the time now.

Love is Like the Weather

The storm blows in. They fight. They yell. They curse. They can't "live like this" any more. I get aggravated hearing them complain. They nit pick at each other. They are meaner than I have ever been to someone I loved. I would be devastated if someone spoke to me the same. I would have been long gone. He calls her controlling. She calls him deceitful. He calls her negative. She calls him oblivious.  She complains about how he eats and that he doesn't get out of his nightshirt for days so she can wash it and the mountains and mountains of paper he prints on and never looks at again. They get mad at each other through emails. Emails sent to his children are sources of argument for both. The things they both say are exaggerated and skewed. Seen from a forgetful view through a hazy window.
The storm blows out. They can't keep their hands off each other. They hug and kiss and lean on each other. They practically make out at the table. He makes eyes at her and grins secretively. She grins back and looks over at me with glee. They talk about "the bedroom" suggestively. She initiates the talk. He thinks she's "racey". He calls her beautiful.  Its over the top, sometimes, but I am happy when the storm is out.
Neither can hear. Conversations are said then repeated, then repeated again, slowly, loudly, exaggerated. Their favorite word is "what?" He barely listens, anyway. His ability to focus is incredible. The world ceases to exist around him. A hurricane could hit and he would read his paper. She plays Nintendo DS. This is their morning routine. This is their time together.
I try to convince them to find things to do together. They are stubborn. They are set in their ways. To refuse is to triumph, a battle won. They have all the time in the world but they spend it together but separate. Each engulfed in their own activity.

The Meaning of Death

     His family communicates through emails, a group email addressed to all members of the family. They discuss him like he isn't there. Nothing is sacred in the topics of conversation; dementia, nursing homes, incontinence, death and funeral arrangements discussed as cold and matter of fact as a 30 second spot between segments of a television program on the Lifetime channel. He is privy to all of the conversations, all discussing the final years of his life like some board of directors of a failing corporation. SO many emails. Each one is pages and pages, thousands of words. I see it as so cold. I believe they see it as open and matter of fact. I sense no love there. Maybe it is the kind of love that they recognize and I don't.
      I can't discuss my mother's death with her without crying. I dread that day. It is the worst thought of my life. I play that day in my head often. I contemplate how it will play out. Will I be there? Will I get a message through the phone. The most I say to her about it is to try and get her to handle her affairs because I know I will be a wreck. The gaping void that will open in my life will be like a chasm threatening to swallow me. My heart breaks into a million pieces when I even mention it. I stare at her all of the time, trying to see how she feels, to analyze her health. Every labored breath, every swollen limb, every bent vertebrae is a beacon, a shadow of death.
     They want him to respond to their emails. How do you respond to these insinuations, these excessive inquisitions. How can one respond when all moments are spent ducking away from death, living in the shadow of its spectre. I am sure they only have the best of intentions. This is necessary, important. So few moments left and this is how they are spent. I cant imagine what life led to this.

Reach

      His hand reaches across the table oftentimes. Sometimes she ignores it. I can see her ignore it, but he keeps his hand there, hovering above the table. He will smile at her, his head tilted down and slanted to the side, eyes looking up at her. When the suspense becomes too heavy she reaches out and they twiddle their fingers at the tips briefly. He smiles, she smirks. She secretly loves the game.

Stills

     I have been home for over one year and a half and I have begun seeing their lives as frames. When I reflect on their lives I see stills. Composed still photographic images. She's watching TV at the kitchen table in a wavy white wooden chair, HER spot. He's huddled over the computer desk listening to or reading something. He is twisting his hair poised in rapt blind attention to every detail. They are engrossed in buffet food, hovering over plates of mish and mash and soup and salad. She is face down sleeping at the table. Sometimes I check to see if she's o.k. I touch her lightly, tell her to go to bed. She nods and says o.k, but within seconds is face down again. From minute to minute, they laugh, they love, they fight, they fume. Small things become huge. A simple request becomes a raging inferno, in seconds.
     They are still learning about love and companionship, even though they are 86 and 90. Learning takes longer. they are more stubborn, more set in their ways, more stalwart in their stances. But they are still learning. He has learned to modify his critical over-reactions. She is learning to restrain from criticism and learning to praise. They, both, are learning to pick their battles more carefully. They are learning about limitations, too. Things that were once so easy have become tiring. Walking, hearing, breathing, even just standing up. They are learning the importance of naps. It is true what Shakespeare mused. From infants we come and to infants we will return.

Each Day

     About a year and a half ago, I moved back home with my mother. I know this sounds like I am a loser but as my mother was getting older (she is 86 now) I decided that I wanted to spend time with her and get to know her as an adult. I had missed out on knowing my father. he passed away in 1999, just before Christmas.
     Many people become too caught up in their lives to have a chance to do this, but I have always lived my life step by step, day by day because I would rather live my life to the fullest and marvel at each an every second then plan for some unknown future which doesn't even exist. I would rather starve and die when I am old, then live my life looking to the inevitability of decrepid-ness.and what I would like to do when I have to retire when I will then be too old to do it. I have never married or had children because maybe I am too selfish, or scared, or maybe I want to live my life for me and not have to compromise.
     If I become old and alone, I will have a lifetime of memories to keep me company. Its fun to live your life this way. Each day is day 1. Each day holds the possibility for a whole new life. Each day is a new path, a new potential, a new direction, a brand new adventure. The only thing that can possibly hold me back is me.

Dedication

This blog is dedicated to Albert Anthony Aguilar, who asked me to write.