“Skin and bones” is no empty expression.
Her skin translucent. Her face beyond pale.
Dust motes drift in the rays of the sun.
She quietly sits.
The clock ticks.
Try as I might, I can’t avoid my reaction.
I am shocked at how quickly she’s become frail.
Time is short, is my reluctant impression.
My mother is 81 years old. Her and my father still live in my childhood home, a little more than an hours drive away. My younger brother, with social and mental problems all his own, lives there yet too. In view of my father’s two heart attacks and damaging stroke, I was always under the impression that my mother would outlive him by a long shot. I no longer believe this to be true.
Troubled by reports of mental instability, which only began to manifest itself since Thanksgiving, my wife and I went to visit her yesterday. There was no extended family Christmas gathering this year due to extended travel, so we hadn’t seen my parents in a few weeks. She has not been the picture of health these last few years, but old age is never completely kind. This is different. My brother has been reporting not only memory loss, but also delusions and paranoia. Hallucinations of other people in the house. Classic stage three Alzheimers Disease symptoms. However, AD takes years to reach that point, not weeks. Something else is going on.
I am literally frozen when I enter the house and see her slumped on the living room sofa. From head on, the first impression is of a skull rather than of a face. She weighs only 85 pounds. She is weak. She lies back with her eyes closed more than open. Thin, brittle hair hangs straight. Slack-jawed she stares vacantly. When addressed directly, she turns her head slowly and responds. A good sign I suppose. But the air is thick somehow. I feel suspended.
My wife is a saint. She immediately went to her side and took her hand, while I took my brother aside to quiz him regarding medications, searching for a change that might explain her recent bizarre behavior. I’m ashamed at this, for I recognize my action for what it truly was – avoidance. I breathe deep and give my mother a hug and a kiss. She is all angles and hard. No softness remains. I am sad.
There is not much for us to talk about. We avoid the topic that hangs in the air. Yet we stay for hours, talking about everything else. When I question my father at length regarding our family tree (a topic I’ve been trying to document), to our collective surprise, my mother occasionally utters a relevant comment. In her stillness, she’s been listening. Then, I am glad we’ve been avoiding the darkest topic.
When we leave and I hug my father good-bye. I look into his eyes, and I see it. I know he knows.
She doesn’t have much time anymore.
Death, gently insistent, stands knocking at the door.