Moods, states of mind, pleasure and pain

Behind Venturi's, one block away.

Ms. V and I pushed work and mothers aside Wednesday, ate at an Irish restaurant downtown, went to Turner's for the Maria Bamford comedy show, and stayed the night at Aloft, the trendy hotel nearby. I even brought flowers! It's the best we could do for our 30th anniversary -- which actually isn't until Monday, but hey, we thought we'd last five more days.

So I owed Mom the Wednesday visit I'd missed, and paid it back Thursday morning. It was her best time of day, mid-morning, and she was even waiting for me, having remembered our arrangement.  Not a small achievement, considering. We made calls, looked over her papers, I snatched up some bills. She's getting mail from old college classmates, hoping to see her at their 60th reunion, coming up soon, and she said she wanted to go.

I could see it so clearly.

"I just don't think I can get you there, Mom," I said.

I felt like an ass, but her ambition is greater than her ability. Six hours in the car feels, to her, like a day and half. She'd be asking if we were lost, saying I didn't know where I was going, insisting we had to stop and ask, and constantly saying how long the ride was. She'd say, "Work with me, now, Nels," and call me her brother. She'd try to open the door while we were moving. It would be not just difficult, but dangerous.

And even if we got there and spent, say, two days at the reunion, it would be two days at her elbow as she introduced me again and again. "This is my son Jon." "This is my son Jon." "This is my son Jon." She'd gawk at the people, talk nonsensically, introduce me twice to the same people, and be tired in an hour and a half. Mostly, I don't think she'd have any fun. I'm sure I wouldn't have any fun, not that that should matter. Though, of course, it does.

She just looked at me for a minute, realizing, I think, her powerlessness.

*

This afternoon, she called me at work and left a message.

"Hi Jon. This is Mom. Just calling from my place here. Just lonesome for you, I guess. Call me if you can. I'm home here now at my place. OK, bye-bye" -- trailing off.

It made my heart stop for a moment. Such bald need. Such pitiful pleading. I want to help, I want to help, I want to help. She wants me there, she wants one of her children with her at all times. But I can't, can't, can't spend my life with my face constantly in front of her. I want to be able to ride my bike, I want to be able to go to Maria Bamford, I want to eat Irish food, I want to spend a few nights at hotels with my wife.

Finally, tonight I called her back. 6:15 p.m.

"How are things?" I ask.

"I keep moving, and I moved into the other room, and all my stuff is there -- it's just like the other room, and everybody says it's my home."

I think maybe they've moved her. "Are you still in the same room?"

She doesn't know.

"Are you in the room with the bathroom in the center?"

She says words, but no answer. She sounds exhausted.

"You're tired, Mom. You should lie down."

"I need to sleep," she says. But she wants to sort out the problem.

"Mom, just lay down, take a nap. I'll come tomorrow and we'll sort it out, OK?"


*

Niece S is here, and we went to Good Friday church, with Julie in the choir. It was depressing, as, I guess, Good Friday church should be. We'll have brunch with Mom tomorrow, I'll ride, and in the eve we'll watch the Badgers in the Final Four. Then, Sunday, Julie and S will go to Appleton to the mother there, and I'll spend Easter here, in the pew with Mom.

Moms, Moms, Moms.