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Mom

Hope Atlas

    I enter the small room, seeing my mom’s 90-pound body, curled up in a ball. There is uneaten food on a tray at the end of her bed. Just as I had imagined, the TV is on, some game show announcer is yelling and the audience is clapping. Maybe all institutions only have one channel. There’s a small dresser, with nothing on top. Against the bare wall is her walker. Since when did she use a walker?
I hear coughing - there is only a curtain separating her from her roommate. Making my way to the bed I can see Mom is more asleep than awake. I whisper in her ear, hoping to wake her, “Mom, it’s me.” I stroke her hair - or what’s left of her once pretty blond hair. I can barely hear her plead, “Suzie, hold my hand.” I cringe at my childhood nickname.
    My heart begins to beat irregularly now, making me feel a bit queasy. I close my eyes for a moment. I take her frail, bony hand. “How are you, Mom? Are they nice here?” I try to sound cheerful but the place is depressing and ugly. She says quietly, almost begging, “I want to go home.” I want to tell her this is her home now but it seems too cruel to say. Instead, I start talking with strained enthusiasm about Rachel and Ilana. “Rachel and Ilana are doing really well...”, I stop midsentence - my lame attempt at conversation is ignored completely. She whispers, “don’t leave me” - those were the words I heard my entire childhood. “I am here, Mom,” I quietly say, but my heart is now racing. I don’t want to hold her hand anymore. In fact, my instinct is telling me to run. I am starting to get a sharp pain in the middle of my forehead. I am having trouble finding enough saliva to swallow.

    The noise from the aide taking away her tray momentarily jars me.
My mom sits up a bit. Almost angrily my mom points at me - “See, I do have a daughter; they thought I was lying - that you were my invisible daughter!” I smile that smile I learned to make as a kid. I clench my hands, barely noticing that my nails are digging into my palms. I try thinking about Rachel and Ilana. My hands are starting to sweat; I feel them tremor slightly. I squeeze my eyes tightly to stop the tears that are forming. I am determined not to cry. I am OK. “You don’t have to stay,” I remind myself. “Mom, it’s time for me to go.” I kiss the top of her head. “I love you.” Even as I say those three words, I wonder what do I really mean? “Mom, I feel guilty for never calling you?” “Mom, I feel sorry for you?” Or maybe
it’s
simply what daughters are supposed to say: faking normalcy (even at fifty I was still pretending!).
When I listen to other people talk about what they do with their mothers, I nod politely, while wondering how going out to lunch or going shopping with your mother feels.

    My mom’s voice brings me back to the present: “Suzie, don’t go.” “Mom, I will see you soon, OK? I’m going to get the nurse for you,” I reassure her that her regular dose of morphine will be delivered in a few minutes. I look at her one more time as I leave. It’s hard to believe she is only seventy-five. They didn’t even bother dressing her.
She’s supposed to be doing things with her grandkids. My kids.

    As I check out, I wonder if I am coming back. For now, I realize how glad I am to be breathing fresh air; I have been holding my breath.
    The shaking is subsiding. I am determined not to cry - at least not until I get home. I want to take a shower. I think about how taboo my childhood story is - that my life consisted mostly of taking care of a drug addicted mother.
I close my eyes, contemplating the promise I made that moment when my college diploma was placed in my hand, sealed with the firm handshake of the Dean. I had sworn to myself in that moment that I would never visit my mom again.

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