photo credit: hannes.a.schwetz
Each time I leave my mother’s home, I must become a bit like steel. She starts to cry when I reach for my coat. I button my coat and tell her I love her. “I will see you soon!” I say brightly. I pick up my handbag and I open the door. Hug her one more time. Shut the door. I hear her childlike sobs as I walk down the hallway. She is shouting through the door, “Good bye, Rachel! I love you!” If I didn’t turn hard at that moment of “Goodbye,” if I looked back, I wouldn’t have the strength to leave. It is how I return to a life. My life. The one I am trying to make, despite the constant feeling that I am failing; that I am just treading water to not drown in my mother’s bills and pills and co-pays, phone calls from nurses and aides with questions I don’t have answers to, but must provide.
How can I change, fix, soften the feeling in my gut when I leave her room and walk out into the lobby where the loud television blares Wheel of Fortune, and the aides from Sierra Leone and Kenya and Colombia who don’t speak much English (yet, who are ostensibly responsible for my mother’s care) smile at me politely? How do I quiet the guilt that seizes me as I push the elevator button that takes me to the main floor, where I pass people dozing in wheelchairs – people who don’t want to live any more, too sick and tired to care about living? And again as I walk out through the automatic sliding glass doors and into the cab that is waiting for me, driven by a man from Ecuador. “Nice. You visit your grandma. Ci, mama?” No, “My mother,” I say. I look out the window. I am tired. I have spent much of this visit cleaning blood off the walls.
photo credit: arvindgrover
My mother has bloody noses and no matter how many emails I write or calls I make, no one there cleans it up. I cleaned around the toilet. Whether her bladder can’t hold or she can’t see, I am not sure. I styled her hair, in a fun makeover moment whereby she walked into the bathroom, asked me, “Where is the bathroom?” and proceeded to take a plastic cup full of water and dump it on her head. “I needed moisture.” she says. My mother, who once quoted poets and intellectuals at dinnertime and wouldn’t let a Sunday pass without reading the Times from cover to cover now finds making ornaments out of pipe cleaners her proudest accomplishment. My friends’ mothers are enjoying their new retirement: traveling, running marathons, helping them choose their wedding gowns or giving advice how to soothe their new babies. My mother, who at age 59 spent every dime she had until Medicaid stepped in is trying desperately to remember where she put her glasses, her phone, the name of the person she just spoke to, the day off the week. Just five minutes more and the driver will drop me off at the bus stop on the side of Route 32 somewhere in Jersey, which is where my mother now lives in assisted living. A bus will pick me up and take me back to New York. Back to a life.
At brunch or parties friends ask, “How are you?” I can’t exactly say over my mimosa (in between discussion on Keith Olberman’s last rant or my feelings on Occupy Wall Street) that I wish I could live in a padded suit. One where no one could see me. One where, maybe, I could close my eyes and collapse for just a moment and the padded suit would catch me, its warm foamy, flannel fabric hugging my every curve, supporting me so that finally, I could rest. Instead I say, “I’m good. Busy, but good.” The other reason I don’t admit this desire is that I wish to rise above it. Transform it. Work through it. Get to the other side. And so, I practice yoga.
photo credit: hannes.a.schwetz
The other day after class, a man came up to me. “You were in front of me.” he says. “You’ve got an incredible practice. Some people move through the postures, but you dance.”
But, I cannot say all this as I zip up my black boots. Instead, I say thank you. Ask his name. Tell him mine. And walk down the steps and out into the spilling crowd.
Wow, that is a really powerful post. Beautiful writing and very deep emotions expressed. Best wishes.
Carol, thank you for taking the time to respond to my post. So glad to know it’s being read.
Rachel,
I have a dear friend who happens to be my cousin who is going through the same thing in New Jersey. The nursing home if much like you describe and her life is similar and I feel for you.
I dance my yoga as well and so I understand that expression as well although I do like to dive into the padded cell too and allow myself that now and again. I feel your heart breaking and your stress and your courage and humanity and intelligence and applaud that. Way to go. Your mother is so lucky to have you.
Thank you. It goes both ways. My mom teaches me on a daily basis what it means to let go and what it means to release ego. So, we are on this journey together, teaching each other things I don’t think we expected to. Love is funny like that. Thanks so much for your comment and I wish your friend strength and courage. I do think, like you said, it’s ok to allow ourselves to go into the cacoon once in a while, as a way to replenish.
I am crying right now. That was so beautiful.
Thank you for telling me that it touched you. It means a lot to know we are connected.
Thank you, Rachel. Your beautiful piece gives me courage at a time that I really need it. Thank you.
I’m so glad. It is amazing what we are asked to confront sometimes. It’s nice to remember we’re not alone in the stuggle. Thanks for your comment.
I’m so glad to hear that. I hope so. We find the courage when we need to. We are always expanding our ideas of who we are and the biggest times I think are when we don’t know how. And then we find out. Thanks so much for your comment.
I'm glad to see the effect that the asanas are having on your life, Rachel. Indeed, you are watching your mother fade out before your eyes, which is (to put it lightly) emotionally draining. It takes strength to put the energy into asana instead of alcohol.
Excellent work Rachel, keep practicing, and keep posting
Always inspiring and full of love!
You must know that you’re 100% human and while many years and experiences have divided us, I feel more connected than you know. My heart hurts thinking of how much you’ve taken on… And how utterly amazing I think you are. Please keep writing. I know I will need your strength through words to motivate me at some point in the future.
rachel you are not alone-we are ypur family and we love you..blessings neice you are beautiful and so strong.
love terry
Hey Rachel, I am sooo proud of you, but you and your mother have always lighted up my life in some way, you are such an awesome blessing and always loved seeing you and spend time with you, again at Steve's wedding,my prayers are with you and your mom love you both very very much and always hold on to the precious memories I do have with your mom, give her a big hug for me, even if it is like a stranger. love you both always Kathy Johnson.
Rachel – You are amazing and beautiful. I am glad you are my sister. I love you, Meredith
Rachel, this needs to become a book! It is so helpful to so many dealing with the same things you
are…I love you! Lorraine
Rachel is indeed working on the book right now!
Beautifully written…from the depth of your heart and soul. Your raw honesty and willingness to be open is both humbling and inspiring. Much love.
HI Rachel, This posting will help A LOT of people. A LOT! Keep writing and expressing your feelings and letting it out. You are helping yourself and others out there who are also struggling with demons, which, by the way, is ALL OF US!
xo,
Merete
I think that once again Rachel has written a poignant and graceful and heartbreaking, truthful piece about life in its many stages. I especially love the line about choosing to show up rather than be invisible. I struggle with that. Thank you for another courageous sharing of your story.
Wow, beautiful writing! I loved “the greatest acts of courage are private” section and how that has given you greater compassion with strangers etc. It is so true, you never know what people are struggling with – I need to remember this too!
I loved your description of your yoga practise too – how it feeds, supports and keeps you (figuratively and literally) alive.
I really look forward to reading more of your work.you are truly an inspiration.
Rachel, you are a rare and beautiful lady. Thank you for staying strong and keeping your light. We need you in this world.
Nancy, staying strong is indeed the hardest fight. Thanks for reading and commenting.
Wow, beautiful writing! I loved “the greatest acts of courage are private” section and how that has given you greater compassion with strangers etc. It is so true, you never know what people are struggling with – I need to remember this too!
I loved your description of your yoga practise too – how it feeds, supports and keeps you (figuratively and literally) alive.
I really look forward to reading more of your work.you are truly an inspiration.
Sarah, Thanks so much for your comment. I know. We see people smiling and buying groceries in the store, but we just don’t know what people are up against. Not really ever. So grateful you read and posted your thoughts.
I'm proud to have ever been considered a friend. Not only your friend, but a friend of your parents. Talking about pride, imagine how proud Steve would feel knowing that he had produced a daughter like you!
Lee, let’s hope so! Like my mother says to me, we only have to do two things: Be true to ourselves and love God. Thank you for reading and posting.
You should be so proud of yourself for not just surviving these challenges but thriving in your yoga practice and finding the time to write such beautiful, inspiring insights. Thank you for your courage and committment.
Brittney, In mentioning “time” you bring up something important: sometimes it’s so easy to run away or numb out from times that hut so badly, but I think, when and if we are ready, to take the time to honor what we are fighting let’s us own it in a different way. Thus the power of writing! Thanks so much for your comment.
Thank you for sharing this piece of your soul.
Such a beautiful comment. I wish I knew your name. Thank you for reading and commenting!
Rachel your vulnerability and honesty moves and inspires me. Your article really touched me and I thank you for sharing your beautiful heart with your readers.
Jake, thank you for responding and for reading. It’s interesting you used the word, “vulnerability.” I used to think that that was the opposite of vulnerability. Now I know, in fact, strength is often found THROUGH vulnerability.
Rachael, we have met a few times and I feel I know you and am not surprised at your writing. You and your brother and sister do have you in their hearts.
Elaine, Thanks you for your warm words and for reading my post.
Thank you for sharing this most powerful piece, Rachel. You are such a special person!
Sarah, I appreciate you reading my post. I think we are all “special” in the sense that life gives us what it does, and we all rise up because we must. Thanks so much for reading and sharing my post.
Honest without hesitation as if I were reading it as you wrote it- yes it felt that raw. Bless you for your courage strength, conviction and heart- very much looking forward to the book.
“Raw” is the perfect adjective, because that is exactly how I feel most of the time. Trying to not judge it. No way else to be at times. Book is coming. Step by step. Thanks so much for your comment and for your support.