Late in the year

It's Sunday morning, and I'm on my way home from visiting my mom in Philadelphia. It's golden November now, the short interlude of perfect light and color as autumn winds down and winter comes swanning in, throwing its weight around and trying to assert its dominance. The deciduous trees are at peak color right now and the sky is milky pale blue, decorated with delicate pink- and gold-edged clouds. The air is light and fresh, soft and slightly misty, not dry and crisp. It’s lovely, so much so that I’m going to stop writing so that I can just look out the window at the fleeting November beauty. It’ll be gone in a week or two. 

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We made the drive home in near-record time. My mother is OK, except that she’s not, and there is not much we can do about it because she persists in certain terrible health habits, and refuses to take care of herself and refuses to listen to anyone and refuses to even acknowledge that anything is wrong with her. Living in her own reality is a top ten skill for my mother, and it always has been, so at least some things never change. 

Does that sound harsh? Yes, it does and it probably is but there we are. I’m just here to keep it real, and to tell you that it’s possible to love someone and be furious at them at the same time. It’s possible to both blame someone who chooses to do the wrong thing all the time, and to feel sorry that they have to live with the consequences of their choices. Sometimes people cannot help their poor health but sometimes they can and it’s hard to watch someone stubbornly cling to their worst habits and not be angry at them. 

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Yes I know. I’m one to talk. I don’t really have any bad health habits to speak of, but I do avoid doctors like rich people avoid the IRS. I’ll do better, and I’ll stop being so judgmental. 

Well, I’ll do better and I’ll TRY to stop being so judgmental. No promises. I can only do what I can do. 

My mom is doing better now or so she says. She insisted on going home to her own house, which is really not the best place for her right now. But I understand. I'm very attached to my own house. I like being in my own environment surrounded by my own things. I like living by the house rules when they happen to be my rules. When I’m old, I don’t think I’ll want to live with grown people other than my husband, even if I grew them myself. There is really no freedom like the freedom of home.

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It’s Wednesday now and I’m so immersed in my routine that I’m not thinking about my mom every minute of the day. For a few minutes at a time today, I forgot about her and her health and what I think she should do; and instead, I just did my work and lived my life. But it’s always there, always in the back of my mind. Today, a coworker’s mother suffered a stroke, and it was a reminder that my own personal mama is not in the best shape and that any moment could bring bad news. 

But there’s no bad news right now. She was fine yesterday, and I’ll check on her again today, and I’ll keep doing my work and living my life until she needs me again. I’ll shop for Thanksgiving groceries and read books and walk outside in the still-perfect November light and watch college swimming and compulsively clean my house until other priorities intervene. We’re all living on borrowed time, anyway.