generations

It is an interesting thing to really begin to grow into your adulthood. To have serious, adult conversations with your parents about their aging parents, to talk frankly with your mother about her marriage, to visit your brother's first house. I'm starting to see my family in a different way, a way that makes me feel as if I'm finally becoming the adult I always wanted them to let me be as a teenager and early twenty-something. Looking back, I wish I would've kept some of those demands for freedom to myself.

My grandmother was at my house when I pulled into the driveway on Friday evening. Mrs. Henry Wade Thompson -a widow of seven years, having lost my grandfather my senior year of high school. My first close experience with death, and still the hardest one to swallow up to this point, and her first experience with devastation and depression. After he died she was never the same, and seven years later she is still not the grandmother I knew. There are moments that I can recognize the fun, vibrant woman that I used to know. She shot me The Bird on Friday night. It was awesome. I laughed so hard at that bony, wrinkled finger with it's half grown-out acrylic nail sticking up at me. Mom tried to disapprove of our crude horseplay for a moment, but was soon howling in laughter with us. I miss those moments. Most of our conversations now consist of her asking me the same question ten to fifteen times within in an hour. I feel guilty for being so impatient with her and wonder if she can hear it in my voice.

She can no longer drive because she gets lost and confused, so we took her home. She begged us to come in with her, so we went for a few minutes. It has been some time since I've been in her house. I remember spending the night there as a kid, and waking up the next morning knowing there were chores to be done. She taught me the art of perfect hospital corners, always making the beds as soon as we got out of them. No breakfast until the beds were made. But this is no longer the same house. There are piles of things everywhere. In the kitchen, stacks of Rice Krispies and junk food, her dietary staples. Five boxes of trash bags on top of the fridge that has weeks-old food inside. She forgets that she already has things when she goes to the store, so there are multiples of everything. The lampshade in the living room that sits by "her chair", near "his chair", where I can still see him sitting every time I walk in, is covered with post-it notes. I noticed that three of the notes said the exact same thing ... the name and number of the electrician written in her left-hand scrawl, all lined up in a row. Another note reminds her to call 911 in case of an emergency.

My mom struggles with what to do. Her brother passed away a couple of years ago, and she is the only one left to take care of her mother. It is tiring and wears on her patience as well, sometimes receiving 10 calls a day from her. Memaw begs to not be put in a home, but she clearly can't live by herself. What do you do in that situation? I can't imagine. I wonder what it will be like when my parents are old. Will they have the same issues? What would either of my parents be like if they were to loose their spouse? How would I deal with that? Just to think of one of my parents crawling into bed at night without the other makes me want to cry. I'm not ready for that level of adulthood, but I guess you never are.