If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother

 “Can we talk?” I asked my husband Richard. “Shu-err,” he said, dragging out the word to two syllables, meaning he’s not so sure he’s sure.

  It’s a rainy afternoon. One of those days when you’re glad you don’t have to go anywhere. I’m sprawled on the couch, googling car rentals. “I’m trying to decide what kind of car to rent,” I said. “Any chance you’ll come to Great Barrington with me for the summer? I could get a trunk big enough for your scooter.” Richard has crippling arthritis and uses two canes to navigate our apartment and has a motorized scooter for outdoors. “It’s not in the cards,” Richard said. “Not after last summer.”

  Last summer, instead of spending July and August in Great Barrington, as we had planned, Richard lasted less than 24 hours. He couldn’t get along without his necessary comforts—his zero gravity recliner, his Ergomatic desk chair which sits in front his super-duper computer center, and his 56” TV. Richard is nocturnal, and just one night without his essentials had caused him great distress. Reluctantly, I drove him back to the city the next morning where he stayed and spent the summer with his homecare aide, who came Monday thru Friday mornings. I drove back to the Berkshires and spent my weekdays in Great Barrington and returned to the city every weekend to spend them with Richard. It was the first time we had spent our summers apart and, much to my relief, it worked out fine.

  Since then, Richard has grown anxious about many things: the stock market, taking too many meds, increased pain, decreased energy, tripping on the rug, and falling in the bathroom. And any change to his routine can cause a melt-down.

  Last week was a good example. The plumber had come to install a new bathroom sink to replace the old leaky one. When the job was done, Richard was miserable. You made a mistake,” he yelled. “The new sink’s too high, the bowl is too small, and I miss the shelf above the old sink. “Send it back,” he insisted. “Too late,” I said. “Give yourself some time to get used to it.” And, with that, Richard started to cry, which he’s been doing more often lately. “I don’t have time. I feel I’m vanishing.”

  Then, just yesterday, struggling to get out the shower, Richard let out a yell. I found him straddling the edge of the bathtub, one foot in and one foot out, afraid to lose his footing. “Everything’s getting so much harder,” he said. “I feel so diminished.” “You’re doing the best you can,” I said, helping him out.

  This morning, he was in tears again. “It keeps getting worse. I can barely move my left arm,” he said. “The pain kept me up all night.” Hearing his moans and groans, I felt helpless. “I know this may sound heartless, but you’re fighting a genetic battle. I’m afraid you’re aging just the way your mother did.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I really needed to hear that,” meaning he really didn’t. “I’m so sorry, but it’s true,” I said, hugging him. “You’re like your mom in so many ways—you look like her, you’re built like her, you have her eating habits and her sleeping habits. You’ve even inherited her diabetes and arthritis. But here’s the good news: she lived to 94.”

  “That’s also the bad news,” Richard said. “Her last ten years were confined to her recliner. That’s not how I want to live.”

  “I know,” I said, “but she wasn’t as resilient as you are. You’re still up and at it, doing what you can.”

  “But for how long?,” Richard asked. “I practically live in my recliner. I can’t walk two steps without using my canes, and that’s even getting hard to manage, and the scooter is too big to use from room to room.”

  “I’m guessing that your next step is a motorized wheelchair,” I suggested, hesitantly. “It’s sturdy, but smaller and lighter than the scooter, and you can use it indoors, as well as out. No need to rush, but let’s think about it.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for a wheelchair,” he said. “I’m not sure about anything anymore. But you may be right.” After a long pause, he kissed my hand and added: You’re right about my mother, too. Damn it, you’re almost always right.”

  I couldn’t argue.