Switching Streams

            For someone who hasn’t gone anywhere this summer, I feel like I’m traveling all the time. Each day I commute between two parts of my life — the part that is thriving and the part that is dying. There’s no time change involved, yet I’m constantly exhausted, trying to be who I’m supposed to be in each scenario.  

            When I’m with my mom, who spends most of the day lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything, I yearn for my kids and distract myself with my phone like a teenager. When I’m with my children, I feel guilty that I’m trying to enjoy myself, knowing that my mom is lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything. I’m constantly checking my phone to see if my dad or Hospice has called. In both instances, I maintain a constant numbness that doesn’t allow me to cry or laugh. Sometimes it’s hard just to breathe. 

            After weeks of beating myself up over this, I decided to just let it be — or at least try to. If I can tap into a stream of happiness in either world, great. If not, I ride it out and hope for a better wave next time. So far I’ve found that this strategy serves me better than trying to be something that I’m not. My son calls me out the second he sees my fake smile anyway, so there’s no use in trying to fool him or anyone else. 

            Still I worry that I’m fooling myself. My mom isn’t going to be around much longer, and I have no idea what that looks or feels like. Right now, I’m busy organizing her care and making sure she has what she needs. There hasn’t been much time to ponder what the new normal will eventually be. When I do venture into those thoughts, I quickly think of something that needs to be done. My friends tell me that there will be time to process and grieve later, so I’m taking them on their word that that’s true.

            In the meantime, mom still smiles occasionally, and her eyes twinkle when she does. Typical mom, she apologizes for being lazy while she’s lying on the couch, not remembering that she has cancer. Her Alzheimer’s makes sure that she can’t recall that, which is probably a good thing. “It’s okay to be lazy,” I tell her. 

            As she naps, I either doze off with her or wander around the house. Because she’s at home now, I get to visit the museum of my youth on an almost daily basis. Rummaging through drawers and closets, I discovered a box of old photographs, the horse mask I wore in my first play and a slew of certificates commemorating any occasion you can imagine. (My citizenship award for good behavior in sixth grade, complete with a scratch and sniff sticker, is a favorite.) 

            These are all Winks of Goodness, but these winks sting because they remind me of a time when things were different — a time when mom took care of me and Hospice meant a free pen from their booth at the county fair. I realize that roles and situations change. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and no matter how challenging it is, I’m grateful that we’re following life’s natural order.

            Now I keep all of my kids’ photographs on my phone and computer, they each have a paper fish hanging in their rooms from one of their first plays, and I save every certificate (sans scratch and sniff stickers) they earn. One day these artifacts will bring smiles to their faces when they least expect it and have no idea how much they need it. 

            Last night, my husband and children looked through the box of photographs I found at my parents’ house. Many of them were of trips my mom and dad took after I left home, but some captured moments of my childhood. The Tots loved seeing my class pictures from elementary school. They laughed at my Dorothy Hamill haircut (the only time I’ve ever had short hair), sun-sensor glasses (why was this ever a thing?) and Mr. Bill T-shirt (Mr. Bill still rocks). 

            I smiled because I was finally able to enjoy both of my worlds at the same time. Looking through these dusty photos, I knew exactly who I was supposed to be, and I rode that wave as long as I could.