If She Could

“Come on, Mom. You have to.”

“I don’t want to, you bitch!” Despite her age and condition, she ran away like a kid having discovered their ability to sprint. My mother’s unoccupied shower seemed to be the escape I needed. The steam, the running water, the white noise. But with dinner to make and medicines to take, my haven had to wait. 

When I was a little girl, my mom always promised to love me no matter what. She made that promise waiting with me at the bus stop, reviewing my report cards, tucking me in at night. Through my teenage pregnancy, she loved me. Through my divorce, she loved me. Through my son’s custody battle, she loved me. However, among other things, she had forgotten how to keep that promise.

Without a single word spoken or agreement signed, my family decided I would take care of her. I couldn’t blame them. She needed a nurse, and I was one for decades. But for five years now, I’d wished that conflicts of interest were extended to nursing.

As a kid, I remembered watching Mom do her hair everyday even if she wasn’t leaving the house. Curlers everyday, no matter what. Now, she only did it if I told her we were going to the grocery store or the park. We couldn’t afford to buy groceries everyday, but how else could I get her to wash her hair? She forgot within an hour anyway.

I couldn’t hate her for hating me. Nowadays, she only knew me as that pest interrupting her TV time. She forgot the majority of herself. Her love of reading, her sense of rhythm, her laugh. Her mind betrayed her, me, and the rest of our family, but I couldn’t be mad at her for not doing something she couldn’t do anymore.

To make the situation even more sour, I was the only one left who seemed to care about her. Before this all, I didn’t think it was so unique to care for someone who no longer knows how to care in return. However, my siblings were Exhibits A, B, C, and D for the defense team. Like our mother, they forgot how to love me, but unlike her, they had no excuse. They left me stranded on an island with nothing more than the shell of our mother and a lantern losing its light. However, they owned a boat, owned the means needed to operate it, and knew how to operate it, but they made no moves. 

“Mom, take these.” My body handed her her evening pills.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“Mom, it’s me. Michelle.”

“Who?”

My mind caught up. “I’m Michelle, your daughter.” I grabbed the photo of us from the mantel. “See? That’s you, and that’s me.”

“Oh, Michelle. Right,” she said but a little too late.

Once when I was younger and done rebelling against my parents, my aunt told me this story about my mom. It was summertime, and they were going to a party. Mom was dating some guy who didn’t matter in the long run, and he was away on vacation that weekend. At said party, my mother kissed another man. When she came back into the room with chips and dips in hand, I asked her to confirm my aunt’s tale. My mother denied it but a little too late. She never was a convincing liar. 

“Mom, take these.” We finished our evening pills and dinner. She nibbled at three pieces of chicken, a tablespoon of rice, and five green beans. We didn’t talk once. We just watched TV. She couldn’t converse anymore. She couldn’t remember what she said or what the other person said, so she opted for the television. However, she couldn’t remember what was happening there either. Much like doing her hair for the chance that someone might come over, she watched TV to look normal, if anyone she couldn’t remember ever thought to visit her.

After I got her to brush her teeth and put on her bedtime diaper, I thought to myself for the first time that day like I did every day. I’d go to bed thinking I couldn’t do the cursing, the repeating, or the cleaning anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t her daughter or that I wasn’t offended. I’d tell my reflection I deserved better, but as I turned off Moonstruck for the 46th night in a row, I knew my feelings had to wait. If I hated being stranded, I’d hate it more if I were a hypocrite.

***

There’s nothing like your mother forgetting who you are. It’s like forgetting how your arm  works, but your arm has a mind of its own. It knows how to work itself, but it can’t work itself or teach you how to work it. Any bystander can see that your arm is connected to your body, but you know it’s detached.

For the last two years of her life, my mother no longer lived with her daughter. She lost my name, my face, and our relationship. She let me, a presumed stranger, take care of her every day. She didn’t know any better.

I planned a good-enough funeral. People came. Some cried. Heaping piles of condolences never seemed genuine, but people knew I was the one who cared the most. My Mount Everest of pity served just one purpose: to make my siblings feel bad about themselves. I didn’t need them wallowing for my forgiveness. I only wanted that day to be a bit worse for them than it was for me.

I didn’t know if Mom ever knew what was happening to her. In the beginning, she must have, but with time, her condition forced her to never remember that very condition. Like a magician or a cult leader brainwashing their audience. I didn’t know if she knew that she forgot who I really was. If she could have, my mother would have never let herself forget me. I would die just like her, not knowing the means to her end.