The intimacy of care-giving. Dear moments.

I said goodbye to Mom a couple of days ago. My little brother had just arrived to take over the night watches. She barely registered my adieu, which is a good thing, because I would have melted if she had fussed. I had told her repeatedly during the previous nights that we were changing sons and I would be gone for three weeks. This interval pretty much guarantees I won’t see her alive again.

So, four separate watches (around 1 week each) I had, each one with a Mom in a very different state. I will always remember these watches. It was the first time my Mom and I had been so engaged since I was a little boy in her care. The fact that I was taking care of her (rather than she taking care of me) hardly matters. The emotional connection was very strong. The intimacy of these nights was really good for a couple of reasons.

First, the intimacy reminded me that I really do love my mom. You kind of forget this when your life is forging ahead and she is doing just fine in her own life. When an adult child gets together with his parent in normal circumstances it is usually just about exchanging narratives about your lives; her Alaska trip; my research trip to Catalina.

But now, there we were, Mom and I, many nights in a row. Physically engaged in a common project; the task of taking care of her immediate needs. There were some really cool moments during this project.

One thing I really liked was how she responded to being uncomfortable (e.g., a new pain, or getting tangled up in the bed-sheets). “Oh gosh,” she says. Nothing more. Just, “Oh, gosh.”

I mean, I would be saying “Goddamnit, I’m stuck again. Or “Shit I can’t move my foot.” But Mom always says simply, “Oh gosh.” It really sounds like what she might have said as a 7-year old. It sounds like something my granddaughter would say.

Another cool moment happened on my fourth watch (ending two days ago).

Mom was going through many long periods without saying anything. Now and then, I would ask her if she wanted to sip some water or “liquid food” through a straw. “No thanks.” Or, “Yes that would be nice.” But mostly she was very quiet. Sometimes, perhaps much of the time, this was because she was checked out, maybe perusing what was coming, maybe simply sleeping. But the quiet of my last night with Mom, middle of the night, was broken when she suddenly said,

“That bottle of beer looks really good.”

Bottle of beer?

I put my head next to hers and peered the same direction as she was looking. Perhaps there was something there that looked like a beer bottle. Nope, nothing there.

“Do you see a bottle of beer there, Mom?”

“No, but I’d like to.”

This just completely cracked me up. It was pure Mom.

“Would you like to split a bottle of beer with me, Mom?”

“That’s a great idea, Bill.”

So I poured her a glass of beer from the fridge (this was the only time she drank beer during the entire two months since I came back from Costa Rica).

We toasted each other. Mom used a bendy straw, and sucked her beer right down to the bottom.

“I’m going to miss you, Mom.”

“I’m going to miss you too, dearie.”