“So Go Ahead!”
November, 2009
Oh crap. We have the Old Mary Jenks back again. Not the Old Mary Jenks of the past few months: the sweet, attentive to others, kind in her comments, genuine woman. No, it’s the Old, Old Mary Jenks from a year ago, all the way back to the day I was born and beyond: the manipulative, demanding, entitled, selfish, dishonest person.
Today, when she speaks, she gets halfway through a sentence, starts talking jibberish, but now she has major mean-ass attitude attached to it.
“What...is...important...to...me...is....gib ....gab ...gob ...blek.”
“Mom, I don’t understand what you are saying.”
“It...is...important...to...me...that...blink ....bonk .... bah ....zip,” she says, louder, angrier, meaner now.
“Mom, just let me talk and you can respond. You do that fine.”
“No...It’s important...to...me....bip ....bap ....boop ...baaaaa.”
She is insistent, doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. Just demands attention. The Old Mom. The Mary I’ve been distancing myself from for almost half of my life.
I try the old funny story with her, about taking her out into the desert and shooting her myself to ease her pain, in which, in the past, she has been very sweetly concerned that I would get caught, and that she loves that I would do that for her, that I cared enough to end her suffering. Today, I get back: “So, go ahead.” with the defiance of ‘Just you try it, buddy!”
I bring up to her, that yesterday, she thought I was dead, that ‘It really upset you, Mom, that you thought I had died, but when you saw me last night, it made you very happy.’ I get a look that says, ‘You were dead yesterday. Don’t you tell me I was wrong.’
I try and leave after a while, not because I have that many errands to run (what I told her), but because I am getting angry about having Selfish Mary back. At one point, when she was saying that she wanted to die, but doesn’t know what to do, (or I think that’s what she said), I bluntly said, “Mom, just stop eating. You’ll be dead in a few weeks.” In the past when we have had intimate talks about how to die, she has taken mental notes, with a sense of grace: ‘Oh, if I stop eating (or if pray for God to take me, or if relax into Death,) I will die. Very good. Thank you, son.’ You could see her wheels gently spinning, over the past few weeks, with the hope of a peaceful and easy death, shining on her face. But today, she had a look of incredulousness, like, ‘How dare you want me to die!’
“Mom, I want your suffering to stop. You are suffering, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll stop when you die.”
She doesn’t like that answer today. She wants Door Number Three. She’s been looking for Door Number Three, all of her life. The have-your-cake-and-eat-too Door. The Door that opens without any effort on her part. The Door thats all about her. The Door before I came along. The Door before she married Dad. The Door before everything. Fuck me.
As I leave the house, the part-time weekend caregiver speaks to me from the kitchen.
“I was getting ready to call you, when you came in. She was yelling; “I want my son!”
Great.
“And she ate well today, too,” says the caregiver.
“That’s too bad,” I shoot back.
The caregiver’s voice changes. She now knows she doesn’t need to blow smoke up my ass.
“Yes, I know,” she says.
“Me too,” I say.
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
“Yea, take care,” she says, with true empathy in her voice, this time.
She knows. I know. We all know.
November, 2009
Oh crap. We have the Old Mary Jenks back again. Not the Old Mary Jenks of the past few months: the sweet, attentive to others, kind in her comments, genuine woman. No, it’s the Old, Old Mary Jenks from a year ago, all the way back to the day I was born and beyond: the manipulative, demanding, entitled, selfish, dishonest person.
Today, when she speaks, she gets halfway through a sentence, starts talking jibberish, but now she has major mean-ass attitude attached to it.
“What...is...important...to...me...is....gib ....gab ...gob ...blek.”
“Mom, I don’t understand what you are saying.”
“It...is...important...to...me...that...blink ....bonk .... bah ....zip,” she says, louder, angrier, meaner now.
“Mom, just let me talk and you can respond. You do that fine.”
“No...It’s important...to...me....bip ....bap ....boop ...baaaaa.”
She is insistent, doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. Just demands attention. The Old Mom. The Mary I’ve been distancing myself from for almost half of my life.
I try the old funny story with her, about taking her out into the desert and shooting her myself to ease her pain, in which, in the past, she has been very sweetly concerned that I would get caught, and that she loves that I would do that for her, that I cared enough to end her suffering. Today, I get back: “So, go ahead.” with the defiance of ‘Just you try it, buddy!”
I bring up to her, that yesterday, she thought I was dead, that ‘It really upset you, Mom, that you thought I had died, but when you saw me last night, it made you very happy.’ I get a look that says, ‘You were dead yesterday. Don’t you tell me I was wrong.’
I try and leave after a while, not because I have that many errands to run (what I told her), but because I am getting angry about having Selfish Mary back. At one point, when she was saying that she wanted to die, but doesn’t know what to do, (or I think that’s what she said), I bluntly said, “Mom, just stop eating. You’ll be dead in a few weeks.” In the past when we have had intimate talks about how to die, she has taken mental notes, with a sense of grace: ‘Oh, if I stop eating (or if pray for God to take me, or if relax into Death,) I will die. Very good. Thank you, son.’ You could see her wheels gently spinning, over the past few weeks, with the hope of a peaceful and easy death, shining on her face. But today, she had a look of incredulousness, like, ‘How dare you want me to die!’
“Mom, I want your suffering to stop. You are suffering, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll stop when you die.”
She doesn’t like that answer today. She wants Door Number Three. She’s been looking for Door Number Three, all of her life. The have-your-cake-and-eat-too Door. The Door that opens without any effort on her part. The Door thats all about her. The Door before I came along. The Door before she married Dad. The Door before everything. Fuck me.
As I leave the house, the part-time weekend caregiver speaks to me from the kitchen.
“I was getting ready to call you, when you came in. She was yelling; “I want my son!”
Great.
“And she ate well today, too,” says the caregiver.
“That’s too bad,” I shoot back.
The caregiver’s voice changes. She now knows she doesn’t need to blow smoke up my ass.
“Yes, I know,” she says.
“Me too,” I say.
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
“Yea, take care,” she says, with true empathy in her voice, this time.
She knows. I know. We all know.
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