There is something different in my mom's voice
these days. She almost seems... it's hard to describe, but she almost seems...
happy. This is such a drastic change in her manner that "happy"
doesn't seem to capture the immensity of this transformation.
Life with my mother since Covid, lockdowns, illnesses, and uncertainties has been far from easy. She met every challenge with bitter contempt at a world that was out to kill her. She barred her door and her heart against the world at large, as well as her family.
We all lived so far away, and she found our worrying an unacceptable, ineffective means of support.
She didn't need consolation; she needed us there with her. Knowing the truth made her brittle: that we could not be with her, that our other families seemed more important than she was, that none of us had enough money or time to drop everything and visit. Seemingly overnight, all her characteristic positivity vanished.
I began to dread her phone calls. They became weary laments about life in the senior citizen home. We had all been careful to choose a good place, one where we thought she could be happy. But life there never lived up to the promise.
There's no sense in finding fault with the staff or residents. My mom has never been one to make friends easily. It was as if she was mad at us for her getting old. Her laments and tirades directed at us were hard to bear. The underlying message of all those calls was clear: "You've failed me."
That's why these last weeks of her chatting happily on the phone seem like a miracle. I was telling a good friend who works in hospice about this change. She listened to my story with a calm smile and occasional nods.
When I finished talking, she reached over to hold my hands. "It looks like your mom has packed her backpack to heaven and is ready to leave."
What a strange comfort, if this is so.
Life with my mother since Covid, lockdowns, illnesses, and uncertainties has been far from easy. She met every challenge with bitter contempt at a world that was out to kill her. She barred her door and her heart against the world at large, as well as her family.
We all lived so far away, and she found our worrying an unacceptable, ineffective means of support.
She didn't need consolation; she needed us there with her. Knowing the truth made her brittle: that we could not be with her, that our other families seemed more important than she was, that none of us had enough money or time to drop everything and visit. Seemingly overnight, all her characteristic positivity vanished.
I began to dread her phone calls. They became weary laments about life in the senior citizen home. We had all been careful to choose a good place, one where we thought she could be happy. But life there never lived up to the promise.
There's no sense in finding fault with the staff or residents. My mom has never been one to make friends easily. It was as if she was mad at us for her getting old. Her laments and tirades directed at us were hard to bear. The underlying message of all those calls was clear: "You've failed me."
That's why these last weeks of her chatting happily on the phone seem like a miracle. I was telling a good friend who works in hospice about this change. She listened to my story with a calm smile and occasional nods.
When I finished talking, she reached over to hold my hands. "It looks like your mom has packed her backpack to heaven and is ready to leave."
What a strange comfort, if this is so.
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