In Which I Write about Poop

 Mom fell while dusting the fans. Mind you...she's closer to 86 than 85, with Parkinsons.  Nena cleans her fans on the third Wednesday of the month. So she put mom on her calendar and comes over after she finishes her own fans. That's a beautiful gift to us all.  But mom had to give that up. The cleaning the fans in her socks thing. It meant she had to make a decision about what she could no longer do and let someone else fill that gap. And we are all glad to do so.  But we also have to give her the dignity of doing what she can as well. She might not be able to do all of her sports bra by herself, but she can do some of it. For a while, she couldn't open containers. Now she can manage most of them. We let her lead...doing what she can for as long as she can. That's also a beautiful gift to her and us all. 

 Today, I pulled a chin hair. It was fine and grey. And loooong. She winced when I grabbed it and yanked. Didn't even ask or give a warning. "Oh, THANK you. Do that every time you see one of those." And she means it. I know it hurts...just like her arm and her shoulder and her tailbone and her neck. I think that big toe on the left hurts too. But she's always open to pulling the chin and nose hairs. At 85, she wants to look pretty. Today, she's wearing sassy red tights and a flouncy soft-cotton blouse. I pick her clothes each morning like dressing my Barbie. When I left for my own chores, she was sitting in the rocker, pedaling the floor bike, and trying to drink her water. Hopefully the day requires no more pain and includes hours of softness. 

  I love seeing their reflections in the doctor's computer.  Momma remembers when Uncle Montye broke his arm back in the day. They left that cast on for months whether he needed it or not. When they went back to the doctor to remove the cast, Montye was horrified. His arm had atrophied (half the size of the other) and translucent white compared to the healthy brown other, grown wiry black hairs, and the skin...scaled. He thought it was going to be that way forever. Half skinny lizzard. Half boy. They sent me the pictures when she was still at the doctor's office. She'd dutifully brought her prescriptions in the casserole dish we are using on the coffee table. I just have to smile. And she has on her house shoes.  The next morning, she asked, "Wanna see my scar?" She reminds me of my grandson, Dash. He was overly excited to see my toenail come off. Intrigued, he wanted to make sure I saved it so he could examine it and compare to the picture to see how it healed by...

Note to the reader: This text is a CENTO form of poetry. The lines in italics are a poem that can be read by itself. Woven inside my narrative, it becomes something else, assisting in the theme and message.  I see her in a ring of sewing, light fingers on needle and hoop, elaborate scissors shaped like a tiny sotrk, the glass egg in her lap. Her temperate mourning wore black shoes ( Adcock, lines 1-5) The light does weird things in my memory. The room was dark contrast to the open window with the sheer curtains blowing in the wind. Like the fabric was some kind of daytime moonbeam that pierced the shadows of Granny's bedroom. I'd asked how she did her hair. She led me to her bedroom - I'd never been in that room before. She sat perpendicular to the window at her dressing table. I wasn't tall enough to see over her shoulder and into the mirror. Granny, my mom's grandmother, said I could take her hair down to see how it was done.   Released, her hair released a scent ...

I don't have an alabaster bottle to accompany my tears, But I have the tallow from the Brisket Jason smoked last Sunday. I've rendered the fat clean and whipped it with olive oil, vitamin E, and Lavender. Ever fanciful, she pretends we are Indians slathering ourselves with Bear Grease. I don't have swaddling clothes and we no longer wrap the bodies,  But I have white Wal Mart washcloths soaked in hot water until they steam. I've washed them in Borax and Downy; and have wrung them out before handing them to her.  Ever grateful, she sighs in comfort, cleans, and passes them back until they come back white. Even if the acts are menial, even if the consequences of living transfer to my skin,  I am anointing the living, Tahara while she wakes and still can tell me of her love.  She-ma yirsrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad. Hear, oh my soul, she is my momma, who loves.

When I was tiny, mom put me in a Johnny-Jump-Up in the doorway of the kitchen while she washed dishes. She looked away from the suds when I was quiet and found me toe painting, swinging myself through the stuff that passed my diaper.  Today, while easing mom into the shower, a few drops escaped. Her in my embrace, there was no way to swing away, only through. At first, she was horrified when I backed out of the shower and she saw the floor.  "I’m just toe-painting, mom: reliving my childhood." She smiled back at me and we both laughed. Instead of what it was, she saw little me and felt like herself again. My response was her response from back then. And it was good. 

Another Kind of Sick Morphine. It stops the pain. And other things too. After a week, the Miralax decided to work at 4 am. (Normally, she has to hold on to stay on the seat. Or leans on the rough textured wall for balance. We've had to repair her elbows when that happens. The paint takes the hydrogen peroxide better than her torn skin.) She had to help things along with the good hand early this morning. She wobbled as she spread and pulled with the left and braced the broken arm's elbow, keeping herself above the hole. Something akin to concrete released and splashed past the unsealed opening. And then there was a flood of rocks and mud and built up debris. Unbalanced, she grabbed the corner of the shower to stay posed, leaving a high water mark of the flood. By that time, the bowl had filled, brimming over the rim and to the overlapped bathmats below. The heavier items now lodged into the commode, blocking the exits, making flushing impossible and more messy. But the flow cont...

 Jesus pooped too. And someone else cleaned it up. And he certainly dealt with the most horrible of human things. Glad he did.  Mom read a few things I had written to process what's going on with her aging. We are losing her a little at a time. She thought perhaps it would help someone else besides us.  So here, I'll write about it. Aging. Fruits of the Spirit. Relationships. And redeeming the awfulness that can be existence. You know, the stuff no one wants to talk about. The raw reality.