Growing old

This has been a summer of change. My 88-year-old mom had a bad episode (heat stroke, heart attack, hospitalization) and her recovery has been slow and fraught with difficult decisions. Suddenly it is blatantly apparent that she has grown old when I wasn't looking. It seems as if it happened overnight, but I know that's not true. I just didn't see the gradual slowdown, the hesitation in her step, the uncertainty...

Who is this cranky person who sits in my mother's chair, who lives in her apartment, who claims not to like vegetables (after doing everything but cram them down my throat when I was a child), who stubbornly insists that she will continue to drive when she feels a little stronger, who pleads utter boredom one minute, followed by a claim of exhaustion in the next? What happened to the energy she had for everything from washing her windows to ironing altar linens to her decorative painting and her unrelenting letters to friends and family? A load of laundry saps her strength, and a trip to the grocery store leaves her breathing hard and ready for a nap.

Gone. Lost, stolen, or strayed, but nevertheless, gone. Her step falters, her hand shakes, her memory fails her. Betrayed by the hard-working body she took for granted for so long, she is left with only her will to accomplish simple goals: to live independently, not to be a burden, to take care of her needs with a minimum of assistance, to spend time with friends and family, to be-- in whatever way-- a productive, contributing person. It's not that much to ask, but we can all see that she is deathly afraid that she won't be able to continue on her own. I don't think I've ever seen my mom afraid until now. And that fear takes the form of stubbornness and contrariness and complaint that no amount of rational discussion can diminish.

Scarier even than facing this sort of mortality in her is the knowledge that we're next. Sixty is not that far from eighty.