"NOT IN HER HAIR, NOT IN HER EYE" - unedited

The Gummer has some dramatic chappy abrasion under her nose:

"Is that a cold sore? Do you have herpes in your nose? Man, I've done a lot of weird shit, but I've never had a dick in my nose. Weird. Did Dad learn that in Korea? So is that money from the stock market or were you guys really just selling nasal fetish porn?"

  Half an hour later:

  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

   I'm squinting at her. My analytical face and my disgusted face look very similar. (Hey, The Gummer and I both squint our left eye now. Cool)

  "I'm imagining you with a dick in your nose. Do people even do that? It's  just weird. How DID you get herpes there? Don't you know 'Not in her hair, not in her eye'? My friend was on Leno and said that during a cooking segment."

   She giggles. 

   "He's very funny, and he's a really nice guy."

   There's a smile under her dicknose.  She approves. (Of course she does. She made That Nasty Comment I Can't Unhear when we saw that comedian at that casino in Tunica. I'm saving that story for later. Suffice it to say, my mother does not mind a blowjob joke.)

     Then she was impressed that I could change her clothes so easily while she was sitting in a wheelchair:

   "Well duh. If you two had spent more time having sex in cars like normal people, you'd know what you were doing."

   Woven into all of these jokes...like some absurd construction paper basket... is one of the most cathartic conversations we've ever had. 

    My friend is adopting a baby. This friend is awesome. Heart as big as Texas. I have no doubt she'll be a great mom, and I don't think she doubts it either. However, she's still afraid that the baby won't be into the plan, that the little girl will grow up and veto the transaction, that the roots just won't take. That's not how it works. 

   "Mom". I've said her name a billion times. "Mom." 

   I have no doubt.

  "That's what we were really fighting about. I kept saying that I didn't think you liked me, but you were afraid I didn't like you."

  She didn't say anything. She just smiled. More of our shells crumbled like my poorly-planned, joint compound-as-stucco-after-I-sawed-that-wall-in-half, bathroom remodeling project. For $200 a day, someone else could pick up those pieces. Dicknose and I just wanted to sit there and watch the tokens add up. The house didn't take everything. The house didn't win tonight.

   Her eyes were red. I could have told her the Leno bit again, but she didn't need to keep laughing. Sometimes people cry when they win. 

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OLD YELLER, GEORGE FOREMAN, AND MY DAD (excerpt, unedited)

"Mom, that woman who I call  "Old Yeller" is hallucinating again. She's yelling at people who aren't there. Go over there and let her yell at you."

Facial expression for "Um, hell no."

"See, it could be worse. You're just taking your clothes off. That shit doesn't bother me at all."

She smiles. 

This is part of a conversation during which I keep acknowledging the reality of the situation---her increasing confusion and fall risk, her decreasing ability to feed herself or put words together, and her retirement home in the cuckoo's nest---   

with this matter-of-fact calm and and reassurance that seems to come from somewhere else. She keeps smiling, laughing, and talking as much as she can.  She seems relieved. I'm sure some of that was dementia-related and maybe she didn't quite get the whole thing, but damn it, she seemed happy to me.

I brought her filet mignon for my birthday dinner. My dad used to grill it for her, and that's how she likes her filet to be prepared. By my dad. She's losing interest in food, so for my birthday, I wanted her to eat a damn filet mignon. The Memory Clink only has plastic utensils. She couldn't get the steak onto the fork by herself, and the lettuce in the Caesar salad was cut for an awkward first date.  Despite the difficulties, she would not stop eating. When everyone else was finished and ready for cake, The Gummer was still letting me jam a cheap plastic fork into an expensive cut of meat and then trying to navigate it into her mouth.

During the Old Yeller conversation, I mentioned that I had noticed she was having trouble feeding herself. She didn't deny it. I said I thought it had a lot to do with the plastic utensils, though we both know it's more than that. She struggles with regular utensils, too.  (She ate part of the filet with her  hands. It wasn't like watching a toddler eat, but it sure as hell wasn't like watching my mom eat. Not the previous version of her, anyway.) 

The problem is that both the Parkinson's and the dementia are getting worse. She isn't interested in eating, and maybe the food at the Memory Clink is a bit slapdash and nutritionally odd. She's lost 12 pounds in the last year. (I sympathetically gain whatever she loses. Maxi skirts are my friend.) (This is a temporary situation. Look away, my friends. Look away.)

Anyway...

As her interest in food is decreasing, I've been trying to bring her whatever she wants or used to want. This, unfortunately, includes veal. 

"Is filet mignon the only cut of steak that you like?"

She does not remember.

"I like ribeye. That's a fattier cut, but it's delicious."

She remembers not liking that.

"You seemed to really enjoy the steak on my birthday. I've been using that George Foreman grill. Jack and I have been grilling a lot. I can bring you whatever you want... and real utensils."

She does not remember the George Foreman grill. 

"I can bring you veal."

Her eyes light up. "Veal is so expensive."

"Mom, you have money."

More wattage. "I do." 

"What's happening now sucks. You should be eating whatever the fuck you want. If there was ever a time in your life to eat veal, this is it."

"True."

"If it ever gets to a point where you can't eat, I'll bring you puréed veal. Fuck it. Whatever you want."

She is glowing about her potential puréed veal. She is happy to be able to laugh. I'm not afraid, and I'm not going to leave her. My dad loved her and made sure she'd be okay when he was gone.

Puréed veal as a metaphor. Only me...

 Then she remembers the Kruta's cheesecake I brought:

"The others are going to want it."

Good ol' Mom.

"That woman is yelling again. I really feel bad for her. Come on. Let's go over there and pretend to be whoever she is yelling at so she feels better."

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