Trading Places

                                              Trading Places


         I dread the sound of that door, some days, almost as much as I dread never hearing it open again.  It means that she wants something, or needs something, some “thing” that I have to do.  They aren’t so difficult, the myriad of simple tasks that need to be performed because she can’t.  But still I cringe, whenever I hear the door: one more jar to be opened, one more shoe buckle to clasp, one more cup, or piece of fruit that has been dropped, and needs to be picked up, a spider web to be swatted from the ceiling, a window to be opened or closed, a sweater to be put on, or heat that needs to be turned up or down, a remote control that simply won’t change the stations any more because it needs new batteries, and her fingers are too twisted to remove the old ones and insert the new ones, milk cartons and orange juice tops that need to be loosened before she can use them, and don’t forget to put the laundry in, the aide is coming at 2:00 to give her--her bath--and remember to go to the bank and deposit her check and mail her bills, and buy the salt-free bread.  Simple.  No big deal.  Then why is it? 

         Some days it is easy--one, two, three as she would say, but some days it seems that the sound of that door opening is the vacuuming out of the life that should have been my own, but never was.  After all, she needs me-- so much--and none of it is her fault, so why do I dread it so?  I don't know, maybe because it is so easy, and yet it is the hardest thing I have to do, to help her like that, every day since I was fifteen. 
         Unlike my daughter, she will never be on her own.  She will never dress herself, buckle her own shoes, or wash her own bent body, unscrew the cap on her medicine, or even cut her own food.  She will never “grow up” and need me less.  There were times when her illness was not quite as severe as it is now--but it was never good.  We are joined by a force that is intolerable, but one that serves as both of our jailers, only in different ways.

         There are days when I feel noble helping her--like one of Christ’s disciples, spreading cream on her feet, rubbing so gently so as not to disturb or tear the skin that bleeds so easily.  Combing her hair, or snapping her housecoat.  Simple tasks that are insurmountable to her.  In her room, the outside world often seems irrelevant.  On those days, I like being there and being able to be “good” and “noble,” and somehow I feel closer to God when I enter her space.  My heart is pure then, and unencumbered by selfishness, never resenting her need for me. How can I resent her?
         But I miss my mother, the one who would iron my underwear--even though I always thought that ironing underwear was ridiculous.  I miss the woman who painted a bedroom in my grandmother’s house, by herself, just because it looked a little dingy and worked until 12:00am in order to finish it in one day.  I long to see her scrubbing the woodwork down every week, and the smile on her face as she bounced my baby cousin Donna on her knee.  I miss the person who thought that nothing was impossible if you worked hard enough at it.  I miss arguing with her; I feel guilty doing that with someone who is in so much pain--although there have been times when I let my anger loose, and we both would cry afterwards.  I miss the equality of a relationship that is not surrounded by the unequal nature of illness.
          I have been the parent for 30 years of my life.  It makes me old in endurance.  I am tired in my heart.  It hurts me to look at her, to watch her, and to know that it will only get worse.  Most days I cannot allow my self to acknowledge her pain--if I routinely felt it--it would consume me, and if I were consumed--who would take care of her--and who would take care of me?  It has been 30 years now, and I was only 15 when this cruel, insidious intruder called Rheumatoid Arthritis entered our lives and took my mother away from me, and made me her mother.  I wasn’t ready.  I’m still not ready.  But I love her so terribly much, and it hurts me.  It singes me inside. 

The door creaks open.  A small figure with a silver walker appears.  Her hair color matches that of the device that supports her.  Her neck is bent to the side, nearly reaching her right shoulder.  Her frame is slight, nearly one-third the size it was before this disease overtook her.  My mother’s skin is ruddy yet supple and quite smooth for someone eighty-years old.  Her eyes seem smaller than they used to be, almost as if her focus is no longer on why, but perplexed with the how of daily life.  Her hands struggle despite their deformity to hold on and keep her balance.  Her feet shuffle in the orthopedic sandals specially made for her, because no regular shoe can fit her feet.  Underneath those
$ 500.00 shoes lay toes that do not face the forward direction any longer.  The large toes are turned towards the outside of her body, and the four other toes rest on top of the big toe.  Her left shoe is one and one-half inch taller than the right-- a necessary adjustment for the unevenness of her leg length, since her joint replacement surgeries--two hips, two knees.  Her outfit today is the pale blue housecoat I gave her for Christmas, with the white cardigan sweater.  She lifts her head slowly as she stops; while she walks, her eyes must always be riveted to the ground to seek out any enemies of her balance--a bottle top-- a toy--or a piece of furniture out of place.  Any of these could cause her to topple and fall.

         I turn to look at her and listen to her request as she smiles at me.

         Sure Mom--I can fix your shoes and pull your socks up--Do you need anything else?  I smile and say, “No problem,” after she thanks me.  Most times, I attempt to be lighthearted in her presence--never wanting her to feel that she is a burden to me.  I close her door.  Some days, I cry.  I take time to hate her disease--sometimes-- I dread our future--hers and mine, but for now she is taken care of and I have time to sit and cry.  And life goes on for both of us. 
         I wish I could have closed the door on her disease, shut it out, sealed it over, before it ever caused us to change roles--mother to daughter-- and daughter to mother.  I wonder how much worse she might become, but for today, her shoes are buckled, her socks are pulled up, her hair combed, her bed straightened, and her TV is working well.  And yes, I will get those cobwebs in the corner of the room.  I tease her about the spiders who might have kept her company had I left them alone, and she snickers and asks me, What’s an 8 letter word for chocolate drink?  I shake my head in ignorance; she’s always been better at crosswords than I am.  I tell her that I will see her later.

         Someday, the door may never open--the shoes will not be needed--and she will be free from pain.  Someday I will wish that I could help her just once more, and hug her and talk to this woman with the incredible mind, but I will be happy for her because she will be able to dance again--something she loved so much.  My heart will still hurt; I know that even now.  Time has a way of smoothing the edges of intensity, but all too often leaves a dullness, an ache, that surrounds the heart and infiltrates the soul.  And the door. The door will never sound the same again.