I hadn’t prepared breakfast before retiring for the night, so this morning I stopped at the gas station store to buy something. Due to the recent power outages, the selection was slim.
‘Egg salad sounds good.’, I thought as I looked through the glass. I haven’t had many of those since I was a kid, when mom would send me to school with either an egg or tuna salad sandwich, ensuring that I would be sitting alone that day. ‘No, I’ll just grab the turkey with cheddar. That’s what I usually get. I don’t want to become a bad breath pariah at work.’
I grab the sandwich from the refrigerator. Two steps, I stop and turn. I realize I had again acted based on what others want, as opposed to what I want. ‘No. I WANT the egg salad.’ I trade sandwiches and grab a chilled coffee on my way to the register.
“Good morning,” I beam at the cashier as she stares dreamily at the register, as if trying to figure out a complex emotional quandary. “Is everything okay?”
She holds a twenty-dollar bill in her hand and hesitantly pokes at the screen. Her face contorts as the drawer opens. Reticent, she places the bill in the register and slowly closes it. “Are you okay?” I ask again.
She looks up. “Yeah. I just forgot to charge her.” Her eyes hang in shame of a mistake made and perhaps the realization that the lady knew it as well but didn’t care to acknowledge the error. “It was only a dollar eighteen.”, she says with an audible sigh.
She rings up my items, and I slide my card through the reader. “Would you like a bag or receipt?”
“No, thank you.” I reply as I grab my breakfast off the counter. “Have a nice day.” I say half-heartedly as I walk out the door, not really hearing her response. ‘I think I have one-eighteen in my car.’
Leaning inside, I pull my wallet from my backpack, the one I keep cash in. “Damn. I took the coins out and left them at my work desk.” I see a stack of twenties in the bill section. “It will take too long to buy something and get change. I don’t want to be late to work.”
‘It’s her problem anyway. At least I was willing to help. This is different. I can’t be late again.’ I get in the car and pull back out on the road. ‘I could have helped. Am I still the person I desire to be, the person who helps others?’
I remember the doe I passed on the way in yesterday. She was lying across much of my lane. I had to wait for the opposing traffic to clear before passing her. As I drove on, my mind and heart reasoned with each other. ‘I should stop and respectfully move her off the road.’
“Who do you think you are, Hercules? Your reality is different now. You are nowhere near as strong as you were at twenty or thirty. Heck, you have lost half your strength in the past year alone.”
Seemingly contemplating the same scenario, the driver behind me pauses, as I had after rounding the fresh corpse. “See, even that person realizes it is not possible. I mean, if there was a way to do it without getting all gross-ified in the process.”
‘But, if we work together, maybe then…’
“And throw your back out again? No. Just no.”
‘But I feel so helpless.’
I think about my mom; how things had turned so quickly for her. The signs had been there: the odd twitches, her lack of focus, and memory issues. Aging is a painfully slow process, but death… death is quick. Though she had endured many ups and downs during her four-month stay in hospitals and care centers. In the end, there is simply “before and after”. A line carved in stone that can only be bridged through memories.
My mother-in-law is suffering from Alzheimer’s. I say suffering because she becomes increasingly agitated when her conscious mind realizes that pieces are missing from her world. Things she cannot reclaim. Her memories are slowly fading, and with the degradation of brain function, there comes an urgency which did not exist before. The mind fights for its reality, even when that reality shifts like sand. Loss of loved ones long gone results in a short mourning period, or strong denial, each time she learns of their passing.
My father is also suffering. His challenge is frontal lobe degeneration. His reality is intact, though his short-term memory, focus, and logic are clearly lacking their prior clarity.
Being fully aware of the loss of mental ability is particularly hard on my dad. Akin to The Algernon-Gordon Effect, I believe the level of mental anguish at the loss of ability is in direct proportion to the amount and type of intelligence one once possessed.
Having been a man of high intellect, he is acutely aware of his current situation, though he still fights for his right to autonomy. Have you ever tried to get a narcissist to give up their right to drive? Not gonna happen.
Don’t misunderstand me. I understand our inborn desire and need to be our own person, to be free to make our own choices and chart our own destiny.
Both my mother-in-law and father still believe they have the ability to drive a car—a weapon of great power when in the wrong hands—without issue.
My father-in-law had the presence of mind to hand his keys over, of his own accord and without provocation, when he realized his body and mind could no longer respond as quickly to an emergency situation. Were that he was here to bring clarity to those left behind.
The clarity I seek is regarding how to remain calm amidst the storms swirling round about me, how to be of help and live compassionately towards those in most dire need, those who may not appreciate or understand the choices I make each day. This is further complicated by the history of violence in my family.
My emotions are swallowed like my egg salad sandwich, but childhood memories and long-held fears catch in my throat. I push the sandwich and my feelings down with a drink of my coffee, but it is never gone. It simply adds to my expanding waistline.
I need an outlet which will give me a healthy way to process my thoughts and feelings. A way to gain perspective and speak of things. To hold on and let go.
So, again I write.
~ elr
Image: ID 15018662 © Bruce Macqueen | Dreamstime.com