So I go.
My sister picks me up from the bus stop and greets me with an important question:
"When she dies, because I know I'll be the unlucky one to be there, who do I call? The Life Alert people? Hospice? 911? Ron Scott?"
Ron Scott is our friendly neighborhood undertaker. He is both actually friendly and an undertaker.
This seems like something we should know.
"I'm pushing that Life Alert button so hard," I say. "Let it be their problem. And this is really falling and really not being able to get up."
Later, because I am curious, I ask my mom. As she gets closer to dying, these conversations get both harder and easier. Somehow it's all we have to talk about and yet it seems abstract, like it's happening to someone else, someone else's mother, some other family.
"Don't call Ron Scott," she says. "You guys aren't doctors. What if you panic and I'm not actually dead and he hauls me off?"
Good point. Smart to remind us years of watching General Hospital does not translate to actual medical training and this is a judgment best left to the professionals.
I ask her what clothes she wants to be dressed in when she dies. Since she's going to be cremated, she says it doesn't matter. "Besides," she says, "I'm too cheap to let you burn up one of my good outfits that somebody else could wear."
******
Mom is complaining she's not dying fast enough. "I thought it would have happened already, you know?"
I don't know whether to be grateful or angry. But I know what she means. We are an impatient lot so why should now be any different?
I try to remember even though this feels like it's happening to me, she's the one who is dying.
I decide it's my job now to make this easier for her.
So I try to reassure her. "Well you definitely feel worse, right? You would say you're getting closer, right? That's something. Progress."
Chin up, bucakroo, you'll be dead soon. Attagirl.
I also tell her that I'll be fine when she dies. Every single time my voice catches and tears well up betraying me and undermining my credibility.
I'm a terrible liar.
She knows I don't believe it but she believes it. And hopefully that's enough.
******
They ("they") call it "anticipatory grief."
Which is exactly as it sounds. I say it's more like a thousand tiny deaths. Mourning who a person was, what they can no longer do, who they no longer are. Every day something else.
I find myself testing the limits of this new person in front of me - is she new or is she just a variation on the old? One night on the phone as I'm telling her about a doctor's appointment, I feel she isn't paying attention. She's yesing me and fluffing me off. Despite myself, I poke the hornets' nest. I want her to hear me. "You don't get it, mom. They are worried about me."
I've said too much.
She starts to cry and unleashes a stream of consciousness rant that I'm not sure 100 years of therapy could make me forget. Yet, there is some comfort in the fact that underneath it all, she's still my mother. Her words remind me she's still here, she still cares and maybe that's what I needed. She cares about me like no other and can wound me like no other because she installed all my buttons and can find them with her eyes closed.
******
I'm waiting for a meeting to start and the colleague joining me for it shows up outside my door. "Oh come in," I say, "Let's do this."
We dial the line and wait and wait. "Where is everyone?" I wonder aloud.
"Um," he says slowly, "the meeting isn't until 2 and it's only 1:30."
"Seriously? Well why did you come into my office then?"
Good one. I'll blame him for this.
"I didn't. I was just on my way to the bathroom."
Okay, then. Carry on.
"Did I have a stroke and not know it?" I ask, which is a terrible thing to ask.
"I hope not," he says, "And besides, what's worse? You thinking it's the wrong time or me knowing it's not time and blindly following your lead anyway? I just figured you knew what you were doing."
Ahh, now there's your first mistake.
******
Everything feels suspended in time. Like a jello casserole mold thing. Or...
Remember those annoying Heinz Ketchup commercials from the 80s or whenever that was? The one with Carly Simon's Anticipation playing? What a terrible commercial. Watching ketchup come out of a bottle is as exciting as watching paint dry (read: not very exciting).
Just hit the damn bottle on the 57 with the palm of your hand or smack it on the bottom. Dig it out with a knife already. Break the bottle if we have to.
Let's get this show on the road.
But I don't want to rush along the inevitable even though it's hard to appreciate the days between now and then.
For me, I want more time. For her, I want less. Really no one wins.
******
My sister teaches me how to make the syringes of morphine. I'm not very good at it. Much ends up running down my hands and arms.
"You are wasting my precious morphine! And for God's sake don't lick your hands. Or wait, is this why you wanted to learn this? Are you going to steal my drugs?"
She's kidding - sorta - but it's tempting - sorta.
I laugh to myself and wonder how I can add this new skill to my resume.
Life goes on.
