I Could Write a Book

Written Tues. 3 April 2012

It’s the second week of the school holiday, and the children are here with me. Last night, my son decided, uncharacteristically, to read me part of a story he’d been writing recently. It was the strangest feeling. Firstly, he decided to do so at a time when we’d all settled in for the night and I was about to write in my journal, my head filled with the day’s emotions and events. Appreciating the rarity of the moment, I decided I could always journal at another time, but I wouldn’t always have this bright, talented (beyond his own awareness) young man walk into my room and say, “Mom, I’d like to read you what I’m busy writing.”
And so, in the strangest-ever reversal of roles, my son read to me while I snuggled under the covers, listening, as the rich tones of his voice unfolded the story he’d just written. I looked at him as he read, and could see how much he loved the written word, and how much he enjoyed sharing his work with me. So why am I talking as though it’s so unusual? Well, he’s been a keen writer since primary school, he’s in his fourth year at high school, and this is the first time he’s actually done this! I’ve been patient all these years, waiting for him to feel comfortable enough to do this, and the moment arrived as organically and inevitably as I always believed it would.

The dynamics in our home have been hugely impacted upon by my mom’s recent condition, and it was quite significant that my son would end up reading to me at a time when it feels like the ground is disappearing beneath my feet, that my foundation is crumbling, that I’m about to fall and I need someone to catch me. The person who read to me when I was a little girl, whose beautiful voice lulled me to sleep and reassured me that everything was right in my world, is now so confused, so disorientated, she’s been withdrawing further and further into some twilight world, a world I not only don’t understand, but a world I’m being shut out of.

At night, it’s hard for me to fall asleep (I eventually switched off my light at 4a.m.), and the light of the next day can’t come soon enough, as I can then go into my mom’s flat and see how she is. I’m okay with the fact that she wants to sleep more than anything else, but I’m really worried about her missing meals. She looks really pale and she has dark marks below her eyes. Today I’ll sit and eat with her.

The light has gone out in my mom’s eyes. There’s a poignant song that the late Eva Cassidy recorded, and some of the lyrics are, “You’ve changed. The sparkle in your eyes is gone. Your smile is just a careless yawn. It’s all over now – you’ve changed.” It’s a love song, about the end of a relationship, but it keeps haunting me. I feel like my mom has turned a corner and she’s possibly not going to be able to turn back. I feel like I need to find peace with the fact that she’s has entered a different phase of her life, and that I need to rise to the occasion by acting appropriately, doing whatever’s necessary in order to make sure she’s taken care of.

I spoke to my son last night about our possibly needing to bring her into the main house, so that I can be around her during the night, too. To me, it seems as though we’ve passed the point where she should be living alone. She forgets everything, and I’m scared that she’ll switch on the stove, etc. and something will go horribly wrong.

This, of course, has ramifications beyond what I’ve discussed with anyone so far. Once I’ve chatted to my sister, we’ll come up with a plan that makes the most sense.

And so, as the new day greets me, graciously welcoming me into its early autumn glow, I know that what lies ahead, for the next fifteen hours or so, is going to be about a whole lot more than just buying groceries, doing laundry, driving my children to their various destinations and making sure they’re fed and happy, and more than just going to the internet café to check on responses to my guitar lessons ads and catching up with friends on Facebook, more than prepping and teaching guitar lessons later in the day – today’s going to have, as its constant backtrack, my mom and how she’s doing. We’ve decided to take turns popping in, making sure she’s alright, chatting to her, spending time with her.

On Sunday we had a gathering of the clan, and it was a good thing to do. My mom was one of four sisters: one of them has passed on, and one is in East London, so it was my mom (almost 82) and her older sister (almost 84) and most of the four sisters’ children, i.e. my generation. Five of the next generation were there, as well, and it was a very pleasant afternoon. My cousins were surprised to see how much my mom had changed since they last saw her, and appreciated the opportunity to hang out and spend time together. I felt supported by the love and concern of everyone, and I’m sure my sister did, too.

There’s something scary about this time, but I know that this is exactly what life is all about. If I resist the inevitability of what’s happening, I’m fighting the natural order of life, and I’ll frustrate the hell out of myself by trying to wish reality away.

I told my son that my biggest regret was not finishing the process of interviewing my mom to write her life story on the blog I started for her, because her memory’s severely impaired now, and she doesn’t have the energy to sustain a conversation, preferring to sleep all the time. He said I should write it anyway, piecing together what I knew of her life and focusing on how she shaped my life.

I was looking through my jazz ballad song file, the other day, and there’s a really sweet song called “I Could Write a Book”. It’s a song I intend to perform more often – something very soothing and beautiful about it.

Come to think of it, I suppose I could.