Letting Go

My guess is that most parents didn’t spend a great deal of time obsessing as to our whereabouts when we were children; the term “play date” would have only served to alarm them to the existence of “imaginary” friends. Most children I knew were simply expected to spend their free time outside, away from the “boob tube,” taking in the fresh air at play with friends.

The seemingly endless summer days of my youth began with the sound of screen doors crashing closed immediately after breakfast and didn’t officially end until the street lights came to life just as dusk gave way to night. As if by some force of nature, the artificial light oddly compelled Mothers to emerge from the same screen doors crying out the litany of their children by name, ending another day at play with a final declaration of, “It’s time to come home.”

Later as a teenager in Houston, most of my friends were fortunate to have parents who felt secure in obtaining summer passes to the local amusement park, Astroworld. On those days when a swimming or baseball practice didn’t stand in our way, many a parent wouldn’t hesitate to trundle a mob of teenagers off to the park as the gates opened, not expecting to see us again until well after nightfall. We spent those days, safe from foreseeable harm, running in mad circles attempting to break mythical records for most rides on the Dexter Frebish or Texas Cyclone roller coasters.

Those were very different times.

Showering the other morning, I was momentarily caught in some random reverie of my childhood; I wasted a goodly amount of water transfixed by the memories of those halcyon days without worry. I smiled at the thought of my teenage friends, our misguided notions and adventures, the carefree days at the park, and my (former) fascination with roller coasters.

Emerging from the trance, my mind turned again to Mother; somehow I managed to reconcile the memories of those long forsaken roller coasters of my youth with thoughts of Mom and her life with Parkinson’s disease.

At least during that predawn shower, it all made perfect sense.

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When I last made an entry to this blog, Mother was suffering from an upper respiratory infection that was making its way throughout the nursing home in wrecking ball fashion. Even a month after the bug made its first imprint on a resident, you still can’t walk the halls without hearing other residents coughing coughs that border on a presumption of pneumonia. The virus has proven itself to be indiscriminate and relentless.

At that time, Mother truly seemed to be fast approaching her physical Waterloo; as a physician, I was hard pressed to believe she had the necessary reserves to muster the strength to win this fight. So serious was the concern among her caregivers that a decision was made to summon her remaining children to the bedside.

Twelve hours passed.

My brother walked into her room the next morning to discover the secretions in which she seemed to be drowning the night before had (miraculously) “evaporated” into the proverbial “thin air.” Mom was awake, alert and proceeded to assure Jim that breakfast was, indeed, in order; she was “hungry,” adding that an, “omelet does sound really good!”

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This is but one example of how her life these past few years can be likened to riding a roller coaster; this is the metaphor, no matter how cliché it might seem, that resonated with me during my shower as I stood reflecting on her life since being diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

I can’t speak for you, but will admit that I rarely seated myself on a roller coaster without wondering for a fleeting moment if it was, in fact, a good idea. The difference between Mother and me is that I was always given the opportunity to make that decision for myself; Mother, and countess thousands like her, had no say in the matter and were simply told to accept that there is but one way off.

Her life since the diagnosis has clearly become increasingly difficult over time yet she has never allowed any of her children to be witness to her disappointments. She took to her place on that roller coaster existence with nary a complaint and has always demonstrated amazing dignity. Despite the fact that the years ahead of her promised to be both challenging and frightening, she always managed to laugh and smile along the way.

She has endured the ups and downs, twists and turns, lurches and bumps with silent courage and equanimity despite understanding the disease was certain to carry her to that certain, unhappy end.

There were also times when I rode roller coasters absolutely convinced I was going to die. The best I could do once the ride started, however, was to close my eyes, hang on for dear life, and pray that the illusion of an impending death was just that.

My illusion.

But Mother is not destined to finish this ride as did I; that childhood illusion will eventually beome her reality.

And her disease is nothing short of cruel.

Just when everyone was certain her struggle with Parkinson’s was finally at an end a month ago, the track of her ride took yet another unexpected turn for the “better.”

“For the better?”

I don’t know.

Watching as Mother travels this path alone, completely helpless to alter or smooth the course ahead, always has the effect of capturing our collective breath while invariably carrying us to the brink.

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My Reality.

There is much of which to “let go.” I realize I have long been digging in my heels, not wanting to let go even when facing the fact that the woman in her room shocks me every time I visit; she definitely looks very much like the Mother I have always known, but that woman also no longer seems to exist.

Yes, I know she isn’t going to get better; again, that Mother is all but gone.

And, I have wanted to say goodbye for a very long time but have also been deathly afraid.

Of what?

The answer is simple: I don't know what I will do without her.

In typing that sentence, it dawned on me that Mother may not actually be the person whom I am most afraid of losing anymore.

That person may very well be me.

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For her sake, I will need to find the courage to let go of my fears and, instead, pray that her long ride with Parkinson's will finally come to its end.

And when that day comes, I am hopeful I will have the clarity of vision to see a way to discover myself anew.

Perhaps then, I will finally unmask the inner strength that will allow me to sincerely utter the dread word.

Goodbye.