This morning, I took Mom in for a CT scan of her head. This afternoon, she’s taking some memory tests. She’s become more forgetful lately, and we want to know what’s happening.
Now, there are some things from the distant past Mom will never forget – when I lost her good cookie sheet at college, when my sister said the crystal and china Mom forced us to wash and dry every summer was junk. “Junk, I repeat junk, g-u-n-k, junk,” when my brother made his first successful run on his bike and yelled, “I can’t do this. I can’t ride my bike alone!”
But lately, she’s had an increasingly hard time remembering recent events. I’d like to rationalize her forgetfulness away. After all, since I turned fifty my memory’s not as foolproof as it used to be either. And Mom’s eighty. Surely she’s entitled to forget things now and then.
I’d like to rationalize it all away, but I won’t. Neither will my brother and sister or our spouses. Because we love her. We want to know what’s going on so we can take better care of her. For years, she took care of us, fighting battles that would have defeated a weaker woman. Now it might be time to reverse roles.
So today I’m taking her to her appointments instead of working on my book, viewing the day as a mini-vacation, a needed break from the keyboard. That point of view keeps me from worrying about my deadline. So I’m sitting here in the waiting room, stress free and happy.
Except for one little thing. I don’t have a clue about where I parked my car. Hmmm. Maybe, while I’m here, I should set up my own appointment.
