Flying to Pittsburgh, I was filled with anticipation and dread as I contemplated spending the next four days with my mother.
It was difficult to reconcile the version of her I remembered from ten years ago, when she was still doing the kinds of things most of us associate with a ‘good’ life — meeting with friends, going places, protesting horrible Republican policies — with the version I confronted now, who was small and frail, incapable of walking without assistance, confused at any given moment about where she was and why.
I was consoled by the fact that she was receiving good care in her new apartment. So many people had less.
She still recognized me and was capable of talking about the past. We did a few things outside of the apartment — a haircut, a manicure, a dinner at my sister-in-law’s house — but these events were fraught. Would she fall (again)? Would she lose her $2000 hearing aid for the third time in two days? Would she remember where we were going and why, ten seconds after I had just told her? Could I explain to her why her mind was so ‘fuzzy’?
For me, the most fun we had was sitting on the couch together doing crossword puzzles. She had always loved words, she told me, and she loved ‘feeling smart.’
On the day I left, as I walked through the empty airport, I felt haunted by what she had said. I knew that she had spent a good portion of her life — maybe all of it — feeling like she wasn’t smart enough. Though she had succeeded in escaping the confines of her class, she had ultimately devoted herself to caring for her husband and children. I don’t believe this path was a choice, and I don’t believe it ever made her feel smart.
The tragedy of her life is that she was blessed with a good mind and cursed with an inability to use it.
