by Beth Whitman
She pushes with her feet, pulls with her arms. Her feet push at the floor. Her arms pull at the air. Pushing and pulling. She moves backwards down the hallway in her wheelchair.
Her movement is like that pumping motion of a child on a swing set trying to go higher and higher and higher. Pushing and pulling. Pushing and pulling, retreating down the hallway . . .
If I’m completely honest, the image that comes to mind as I watch her retreat from me backwards down the hallway is some kind of sea creature, propelling itself backwards through the water with tentacles waving.
She doesn’t see me any more. Only occasionally does she focus on a face. And sometimes when she moves forwards rather than backwards, she’ll grab my hand and cling to it, not wanting to let go. She wants contact. She is pulling me in, like a sea anemone. I stretch out across her wheelchair, resting my butt on one arm and my elbow on the other, so that I can hug her. She pulls me in but then almost immediately pushes me away.
Hugs don’t affect her any more. They don’t relax her the way they used to. I am just another object. Everything at arm’s length.
Motion is her last connection with the recognizable world. Motion is all. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t rest. In out. In out.
Until suddenly she falls asleep.
Today is Mom’s birthday.
She is 87.
She is no longer in her second childhood.
She is no longer a baby.
She is a sea creature. A beautiful sea creature.
A sea creature blowing bubbles. Propelling herself backwards down the hall, waving her limbs, in and out, pushing and pulling.
“b, bu, b, b, b, Bu, BU, BUUU . . . “
And sometimes in a moment of clarity, perhaps when I ask her if she would like some ice cream, she becomes human again. “Bu, bu, ye, y . . . yess, yes.”
And so I bring her some ice cream, and feed her a few bites.
“Isn’t it good?”
“Y, ye . . . yes”
Until, after a few bites, she pushes away. Feet pushing floor. Hands pushing away the ice cream in my hand.
“Bu, bu, b, b, b, bu, bu . . . “
Higher and higher in pitch she goes. Like an opera singer, or a nightingale.
My mother.
My beautiful mother.
Beth Whitman lives in Maine and is a member of Belfast Cohousing and Ecovillage, a developing community on the coast of Maine focused on multigenerational living and sustainability.
I read your wonderful story about your Mother, it touched me so deep. I have been through this with my grandmother and then with both of my parents. My parents both passed away very quickly, mom in just a day and dad with in a few days, dad knew who I was up until the very end and I played music for him that was all Christian and he really relaxed most of the time. I would go to his side and hold his hand and sing in his ear the hymns I had learned years before and he would hold on tighter to my hand…and then he started talking about the white lights in the distance and he would reach his arms towards the wall as trying to grab on from his hospital bed. Oh how I dearly miss him and also my mother, but I wouldn’t want either of them back for the suffering they were in towards the end. Thank you for listening and I know you also have peace…God Bless!
so tender. and the visual! ah, the visual
of the sea creature, returning to the water
where it all began so simply.
thanks beth for the all ways sharing.
happy birth-daze. xxoh
Beth: You’re expressions of your emotions and impressions are extraordinary…pulling and pushing us. Thank you for your graceful yet raw tonality that allows us to live all of this with you.
Just found out you’re ‘gone’…hope all is well. Drop a line or stop by before the next big snow!
xo
What a blessing to read your words. I lost my mom recently from ALZ. It is so difficult going through this. You and your mom are in my thoughts and prayers.
Wishing your Mother a very Happy Birthday. May God Bless you and your Precious Mom.