Remembering Me

by Alan Barasky

I never understood how some animals could eat their young until now. My daughter is fifty four years old, so it’s probably too late for me, but she really is making me wish I had followed my gut and not answered the door. So much effort for so little benefit. She would have just used her key and marched in anyway though. Such are the indignities of growing old.

Oy, and here’s another one: she’s still talking at me. Typical. If I’m breathing, I must be listening, right? What else could someone in their eighties possibly have to do?

“. . . and, Mom, there’s something else we need to discuss with you. . .”

We? I forgot he was even here, the little nebbish. I love him to pieces, but put that son of mine into a room with his older sister and he just disappears. He must be sitting on the couch behind her. I see something slouching back there, but it’s hard to tell with these old glasses.

“. . . we just want what’s best for you, Mom. Davey and I are worried . . .”

Here’s something I’ve learned as I’ve aged gracefully with my adult children for the last thirty years. When someone in their twenties tells her mother she’s worried, it’s usually because she’s already done something stupid. When someone in her thirties or forties tells her mother she’s worried, it’s usually because she’s afraid her kids are about to do something stupid. But when someone my daughter’s age tells her mother she’s worried, it’s invariably because she knows Mom has become stupid.

“. . . and we were thinking that maybe it’s time for you to relax a little more, take advantage of all the services they offer here . . .”

Ironic, isn’t it? I live in a place called Sunrise. “Sunrise of Schaumburg is a comfortable and welcoming senior community that provides excellent personalized assisted living services and memory care in an upscale suburban setting.” I’m not even sure what “memory care” is – or maybe I just don’t remember. But I know what assisted living is – counting down the days in a 700 square foot tomb of an apartment, eating what they give you when they give it to you and watching the light disappear from the faces of people who used to actually have a purpose in life.

“. . . you know, they have a shuttle service here, Mom. It can take you shopping, to the Doctor. You don’t have to worry about driving anymore . . .”

So that’s it. She might as well take a butcher knife and plunge it into my chest. It’s my only escape. When this place – when what’s left of my life – becomes just too much to bear, I can at least get in my car and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere that’s not here. And for a few minutes, I can – not forget. No, I can remember. Remember what it was like to be with my husband. Remember what it was like to walk without this damn cane. Remember what it was like to be me.