Moments of utter boredom as I wait for my pseudo-stepfather’s foot to make it—ever so slowly—from the side of his chair, past the table leg, to a position under the table; or walk at a snail’s pace, up the driveway and down for one of his ‘constitutional walks’.
Moments of relief that I’ve gone on the walk with him, as I catch him when he stumbles.
Moments of deep satisfaction as my mother delights in the familiar foods I’ve cooked for her. She savors every taste, expresses her pleasure abundantly. My stepfather looks up at me and smiles gratefully as I give him his fifth or sixth cup of coffee, his second half glass of wine.
Moments of amazement when she confuses dates and times utterly, when he forgets whose daughter I am.
Moments of repressed impatience as both struggle and fail (or eventually succeed) to find the words to express their thoughts; or when his shaky hand spills his wine on his trousers, his food on the floor.
Moments of revulsion as I see his messy eating, the old food I find in the refrigerator, a certain greed that surely comes from having so few remaining pleasures.
Moments of deep concentration as I try to figure out what he could possibly be trying to say.
Moments of irritation when my customs and my mother’s do not coincide.
Moments of sorrow as I realize my mother’s incredible losses—the relationship with her partner has dwindled to one of caretaking. She tenderly sees to all his needs. Yesterday, she learned that she would not be able to take their camper to the upcoming family reunion as she’d planned. Significant family members worried that he would fall getting into or out of it, and she sadly, with tears, acknowledged the correctness of this conclusion. She began to accept that loss as well: her camping days with him were over. We tried to console her that he might recover for next year, we implied that she might go camping after he died—but she knew this was excessive optimism as well as we.
Moments of humour when my pseudo-stepfather makes a joke appropriate to a five year old; or manages to tell a coherent story that is pure fantasy; or when my mother shares a funny story from her youth.
Moments of exhaustion, after I’ve done myriad small errands and made what seems an endless number of phone calls—many including tedious long waits and complex phone menus—only to discover I need to make yet another call, find yet another missing item, bring yet another cup of coffee.
Moments of discomfort when he has forgotten that I am like his daughter and flirted with me inappropriately (an action that would have horrified him, in his right mind).
Moments of tenderness as I realize their vulnerability, their needs, and try to please them.
Moments of empathy, when I understand how difficult it is for my mother to relinquish, little by little, her autonomy and independent decisionmaking power, to accept a dependence she’s never accepted before. She’s an independent spirit and it chafes her to have to depend on others. Her spirit is indomitable; her body is not.
Moments of shared pleasure, when she and I appreciate and console ourselves with the beauty of the tall, deep purple iris or the big, beautiful and fragrant Oregon roses in her yard.
Moments of admiration, when I see her still managing a complex household with multiple helpers and visitors and a full schedule of activities for all.
Moments of anxiety, as I watch him try to rise from the chair, wondering if this time he’ll be unable to do it; or realize the degree today of my mother’s forgetfulness—will she be able to remember her own medications and his, her own doctors’ appointments and his; when will she be unable to drive and what will we do then?
Moments of gratitude, as I realize that she’s begun to make accommodations to the transportation issue: she’s investigated and tried out the handicap van, which is a viable solution, albeit not a terribly satisfactory one.
Moments of resignation, as the need for constant and continuing adaptation to change—on all of our parts—hits me again.
Moments of fear, realizing that death could come for either of them at any moment, that the future is eminently uncertain. All is well right now, but we all know that won’t last.