So, gradually, bit by bit, I became a bum.
"Thanks," is the first thing I hear, after the cat nudges the door open to mom's old study where I try to sleep and balances along a cluttered shelf. That's from mom, across the small hallway, on her bed. Thanks. As in Thanks a lot, offered with the usual. I guess I'm not making her very happy. She was on the warpath when I was asleep, waking to hear her. "hello, is anybody here, where is everybody, Ted? Ted?" She quiets down for a while. In the night I get her the pill, but I'm exhausted still. She doesn't push me about how she's starving. Can you take me home tomorrow? Mom, you are home.
I get the old chilled tea out, gunpowder green, sit down, find a place of peace, not easy, within, think of how to approach my being behind in my yoga teacher training certification class. Behind on the homework, the lesson plans, the agility with teaching the poses. In truth, I haven't been doing much yoga. If I get to the morning sadhana spiritual practice in this gloom and uncertainty, that's pretty good. If I get to study from the book, that is good too. If I get to read, The Bhagavad Gita, more power to me.
I get a bit done. I sprayed the wall with watered down bleach last night. The fan and the dehumidifier... But what do we have to do, to keep mom pleased. I'm glad she's still in bed, but.. I've done the dishes. I've rehearsed a thematic opening and then a centering for yoga class, and then taught myself through a few warm up poses and then asana. But I still feel a fog over me. I had two ciders with dinner, somehow enough to make me want to go up and rest, and a nap here turns into sleep.
I had a dream of Chef Bruno the other night. I had a dream of having a college age girlfriend, as if I was back in college. Outings to old reservoirs in the woods. And I'm not certain that mom arrives even in these dreams to spoil the party.
"What is it that is not serving you anymore," one of the adult spiritually questions the Yoga Man Todd asks of us when we fall down into corpse pose. "What if you let that go, let someone down... How badly do you want change... What are you willing to do for it..."
Do I take her to the bookstore? Do we run out to Ontario Orchards for a Christmas tree? Is she going to demand to be taken out to eat... If so, where? And if so, will I have a glass of wine, which then leads to another and general strife. Maybe I should just escape now, and study somewhere. But that would leave her all alone... She can't feed herself intelligently anymore. Thanks.
There's the drive down to Washington, DC, for Christmas... Try not to let that hang over your head, or that you'll be going back to your old apartment... Will you ever move back there? What can you salvage...
Almost 11 and mom hasn't stirred yet. The cat's been in and out several times since 7:30.
I walk around on eggshells, nervous, almost shaking a bit. I look at my old Jesus face in the bathroom mirror as the fan whirs, inseparable from the light, after brushing my teeth and putting ten percent hydrogen peroxide on some skin barnacles. Is the cat due for a rabies shot. Maybe it would be nice to take a walk by the river, but perhaps for now I should just get out into the sunlight, over to the old beaver saga power grid transfer station, where they re-dug the water way to beaver proof it. I make some dandelion tea.
Maybe I should just let her have her way today. Lunch at The Press Box, fine, I don't give a shit. I just won't drink. Homework later.
I'm an old bartender. I don't have any advice to give out.
I'll look at my phone, but there will not be anything interesting, beyond a friend's post on Facebook, or Instagram.
About 11:45 I go up and check on mom, and she's there sitting at the side of her bed. I ask her if she's hungry. Sure. I go down and open a can of Progresso Chicken Noodle soup, adding a small carton of decent chicken stock, the store out of bone broth, a shake of ginger, cayenne, turmeric, a pinch of ground flaxseed, a dash of seaweed salt, cutting into the bone in chicken breast I baked last night in onions.
Well, Mom, would you like to go get a Christmas Tree out at Ontario Orchards... It's a nice sunny day, not too cold, not too windy. She snipes at me. Asks me irrelevant questions. Are you still in school? Yes, mom, this is your home. The mirror, the map of Ireland. Nana White. Well, I've lived here before.
She's less kindly to me as I get her out the door, after finding her the right coat, her gloves, her hat, her cane. She pauses as she stands out on the sidewalk in front of her steps. Mom, the car's right there, I say, pointing to it. I'm not the village idiot, she shouts back at me. Ten times smarter than you, she adds, quietly as I open the car up.
Really mom. Do you want to get a Christmas Tree or not... She pretends to get out of the car. I look at her. Up to you...
We get on the road. Over the hill down past the muck farming fields, up the next hill and over, down to turn left onto Seven South. Right on Twenty West. Down along the marsh of dead flooded trees, a habitat for duck and geese, beaver... And soon, after mom asking me to slow down again, going about 40, we pull up to the intersection of 104. Ontario Orchards just by, past the old school house and the small brick church, a large parking lot and nursery, the barn building where you'll find produce, Christmas ticky tacky, frozen meats, lots of apples, pet food, plant material, garden stuff, potted plants, vegetables, chocolate, aged cheddar cheese, baked pies and breads. Potatoes, squashes, onions, scented soaps, cat nip.
Out in the lot we have a leisurely walk over to the trees, after I wait for her to talk to herself and finally unhook her seatbelt, bundled up there in her coat, finally opening the door and stepping out. There are only a few Balsam Firs left, way too big for the car's back seat, too big & heavy for me to handle. The rows of trees, there are some Douglas firs in the size I'm looking for. And I have done my chants earlier, so I'm feeling fairly calm about negotiating her through the market part with its many aisles. I get her in through the door, holding onto the receipt tag from the tree as the man is cutting a fresh end to take water. She hovers once inside the door, so I have to guide her forward.
Go pick out some apples, mom. I'm looking for almonds, dates, catnip (the cat looking depressed, picking up on mine, hurt by our yelling at each other). The tree. A simple wreath for the front door. Get her back, feed her something, maybe go do some homework. Or maybe just write. Get away from dementia town. Laptop. Get some sunlight sitting at the McDonald's like table.
I don't feel up for any homework, but at least I'm moving independently. Mom wanted to come along. I told her NO.
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