I Became Old....

2/25/11

I became old yesterday. No warning, just the pin pricks of humiliation which let the air of dignity and vitality seep out of my soul silently and unnoticed .

Funny thing is they thought they were helping. Let’s get Mom out of the house. Let’s make her feel special.

So I went to yoga class in my daughter’s place. Great idea! Most of the people are your age, Mom. You wouldn’t believe how agile and flexible they are! I’ll take you, show the baby off, and then you can get a ride home with my friend.

So I went. Because I would like to get out of the house. Because I would like to meet people my age. Because I do need to become more active. And because Daughter sees this as a fix for Mom. See, I couldn’t say I won’t go until I can pay for it myself. I won’t go unless it’s my idea. I won’t go to make you feel better about making me feel better. For some reason I didn’t put the pieces together until we were in the car on the way. Daughter will show the baby off—they were there during her pregnancy and she wants to show off his perfect head, chubby cheeks, exquisite eyes, and maybe even his universe-warming smile. And, oh, by the way, I’m not staying and I’ll ask Friend to give you a ride home.

Hmmm. I have a car, but I don’t know how to get there. I have a purse, but I don’t bring it—I don’t really need it, and what’s more, it’s empty—moths have inhabited the zippered sleeve where the dollar bills once lived. I have a brain, and a will, and a say in how my life will be lived, but I don’t use any of those things, because it’s all been arranged and thought out and decided upon.

Son-in-Law has a late afternoon job, so that’s why Daughter has to deal with the Baby. And she doesn’t want to impose on me to extend my Baby Duty time, because that’s not fair, and she’s all about “fair”. So they figure it out and it’s a foregone conclusion that the evening has been planned and I’m “taken care of”.

The plan works perfectly for Daughter. Class members are astounded by how big, beautiful, calm Baby is. “Can’t be 7 months! Just can’t be! Look at his hair—it lays down beautifully. Look at those cheeks. We are so glad you brought him to let us share in your joy!”  The nonchalant, “Can you give Mom a ride?” to Friend. Friend had already figured this out without having to be told or asked. And off Daughter and Baby go into the night, leaving Mom in the care of Yoga Instructor and Friend. What could be better?

How about a poke in the eye? Bamboo shoots under the fingernails? Liver and onions? Stretched on the rack? Yeah, those could be options.

Daughter and Friend hate it when newcomers hold up class to ask Yoga Instructor about poses or pain or am I getting this or stuff that you should have learned in the first couple of weeks. Well, guess what, this is my second class. And I don’t know what I’m doing. And it hurts like my first love breaking up with me. And I can’t ask questions or get help, because I would become one of them. And, guess what. I am one of them. The old people who rise slowly, who totter, who use the handrails. I just do those things so much better than they do, because I’m not as agile as they are, and because I keep my mouth shut. So an hour in unbearable pain, cold to the point of shaking, and Yoga Instructor checking on me, calling me “Madam” because she’s only met me once before, and I’m not the important one here, remember. Daughter (with Baby, or without Baby) and Friend are her people, not the substitute decrepit, coreless dupe who lies there with silent eye-water streams being absorbed into her hairline, trying not to scream.

Friend is very helpful and on Daughter’s side. In the car on the way home Friend reminds me how much I am loved and how much they (Daughter, Son-in-Law, Baby) need me and want me, so I should accept where I am, how things are. Hmm, I reply, realizing that she doesn’t get it. Daughter and Son-in-Law don’t get it. So why rail out?

Of course, I don’t have my house key—it’s on my key chain in the purse I didn’t bring with me because I wouldn’t need it. Daughter is not home—she harrumphed off to get Baby food. Son-in-Law is caring for Baby, who is screaming in his ear so he can’t hear the doorbell ringing as I stand in the cold wet rain with Friend waiting in the car to make sure Ole Mom is safely in the house. Oh, yeah, did I say I didn’t have my cell phone with me either? You guessed it—in the not-needed purse.

Friend calls Daughter. Daughter calls Son-in-Law. Son-in-Law plods down sixteen flights—no just four—to unlock the door.

The Perfect Evening ends publicly for me with a handful of corn chips, a finger full of peanut butter, and a hot bath and half a sleeping pill. “I have to get up early, so I’ll call it a night….”

Did I mention I’m reading a book entitled The Me I Want to Be? And the key to becoming the person you want to be is surrender. So I’m supposed to surrender to helplessness, to dependence, to being taken care of.  To being “handled” without consultation. And to being happy that I’m being taken care of. Yeah, like that’s going to happen!!

Now I know why people in nursing homes wander the halls nekked and bite their caregivers!