For as long as I can remember, my Father (RIP), would complain about everything and everyone under the sun. There was nothing on earth that didn't fail to satisfy him, except, maybe my Mothers cooking. We never ate out, occasionally we'd go to a fast food restaurant, of which my Dad was particularly fond of. But a real restaurant, I guess I could count on one hand the times we dined out. My Fathers thinking was, if he could find a place that prepared food as well as Mom did, then he'd go. But such a place didn't exist. Mom would and continues to fondly quote Dad on that. I think it was just a convenient excuse to never have to go out anywhere. Truth is Dad always had something to say about Mom's cooking. Of course, first he'd lick the plate clean and *then* start complaining.
I mention this, because now it seems Mom has taken up the mantel in Dad's absence, and this time Im the target. Im not a bad cook. I went to Chef's school and earned my living cooking in restaurants and hotels. Couldn't have been that bad. But I don't cook like my Mom, who for 50 plus years, cooked for Dad. Mom's rheumatic arthritis inhibits her mobility, thus cooking is an issue for her. Her pressure is high, thus salt is an issue for her. Its really a recipe for being one royal pain in the ass.
Limiting the salt intake was a nightmare. Mom's idea of "tasty" equals salty. If its not salty she wont eat it. Literally she refuses to eat. She says it "gets stuck in her throat and she can't swallow it." And if she manages to get it down it gives her the heaves. Its an ongoing battle with her over that. When I cook I hear her swan song from across the TV room, "Make it TASTY!!" When she cooks, I have to hide the salt.
Then theres the issue of my cooking. As I said, I don't cook like my Mom. Despite having worked as a professional chef for many years, Mom still treats me as if I don't even know how to boil water. When she was more mobile, we would prepare our own meals and eat together, but now shes forced to relinquish her pots and pans over to me and eat what I prepare. So come mealtime, my Mother sits at the table with apprehension, already convinced she isn't going to like what I serve her. Its like running a race with everyone one lap ahead of you. I understand that with more than 50 years of experience of cooking she's skeptical. But what she doesn't realize is that shes been loosing her touch over the years. Lately when she does cook, she ends up disappointed by the results. Perhaps that's why shes so critical of my cooking. Maybe shes unwilling to accept that age is catching up with her, affecting every aspect of her life. Maybe shes unable to accept it, thus criticizing me is easier.
Dad may have complained about Moms cooking, but everyone else loved what she made. She could cook and bake and always what she made was tasty and never lasted long. Visiting family couldn't get enough of what she cooked and Mom was very proud of it. She didn't have any talents, wasn't particularly smart never had any ambitions. Her sisters and cousins all had made something of their lives, whether becoming professionals or being self employed, Mom wasn't ever anything more than a cashier. But Mom could cook and they couldn't. Nobody cooked as well as Mom and she was very proud of that fact.
Now she cant even do that anymore. I suppose its a bitter pill to swallow. Worse than swallowing my bland, mediocre meals. The last time we sat at the table and she started doing the "Dad thing", I stopped her short. I made it clear that I wouldn't tolerate that behavior. I was open to her telling me how to cook meals to her liking, I was willing to do all the prep work for her so she could occasionally cook her meals. But I was not willing to be subjected to criticism aimed at maintaining her sense of superiority. She may have put up with it for over 50 years with her husband, I was not going to do the same with my Mother.
So now we sit, she eats, I observe. I know when she likes something or not. If she likes the meal, she'll eat it all, murmuring "tasty" in between bites. If she doesn't like it, she eats in silence. I wait till after the meal to ask her opinion and she freely offers it.
Guess its all about finding the middle ground.
Today my mother confused me with her sister. She was talking about events that happened long before I was born, or even before she was married. I knew she was talking about her sister, since I had heard her tell the story before, but this time she was insistent that I was the one who had gotten the dates mixed up.
After a bit of explaining and convincing, Mom realized her error. She was thoroughly embarrassed. Placing her hands over her face she joked fearing that she was loosing her mind. While this isnt the first time she had mixed up dates and events, it was the first that she mixed me up with someone else and kept insisting that it was me and not her who was mistaken.
My grandmother, who lived with us till she died, had fallen into a kind of dementia in her last years. She was convinced that my Uncle, her son who had spent his entire life with her, was a Nazi trying to kill her. She refused to take her medications and had become obsessive over her bowel movements. Forgetting she had gone to the bathroom earlier in the day, she would lock herself in the toilet, refusing to come out until she had moved her bowels.
I wasnt around that much during that time, but I was there enough to see the frustration and anger my uncle would go through trying to take care of his mother. In my confrontations with my Mom I have often told her that Im not my uncle, that I dont intend to spend my days frustrated and angry with her. Mom understands Im afraid that shes going to turn into my grandmother. Dementia runs in our family, this loss of memory, of getting time, place and people all mixed up. Im afraid it will happen to Mom, and naturally Im terrified of it happening to me.
Taking care of my mother is a kind of peek into the future of what may lie ahead for me. I need for her to be well, because I need to be able to hang on to the hope that when I reach that age I’m going to be ok too. Now that my body is succumbing to the ills that plague my family, I grow fearful that I may succumb to the ills that plagues the mind as well.
My father died 4 years ago. You don't think about your parents growing older, much less dying. There is something about parents that seems ageless. And yet, the truth is that parents do grow old. Sometimes they may even become very ill, before eventually dying. It is after all, the natural order of things that parents die before their children do.
When I returned to Argentina, I hadn't seen my parents for a very long time. After they had left, whenever I thought of them, in my minds eye, I’d still see them as I did back when I was just a child. My father, always the goofy clown, my mother, the more serious of the two. Both so youthful and full of life. Seeing them in the flesh, took me back a bit. There they were, two senior citizens waiting for the arrival of their daughter. Though I imagine we were all taken aback by each other. I was a bit older too, starting to gray around the temples, walking just a little slower, filled out a bit more than when they last saw me. Just as children will make you feel old, parents will plant your feet in real time.
That reunion happened over ten years ago. I decided to return to the place of my birth, after my mother wrote me to tell me that my favorite uncle had died. Her letter planted an idea that would eventually grow to become a kind of quiet obsession. It dawned on me that if I stayed where I was, there was the very real possibility of my never seeing my parents alive again. For years that idea haunted me until it grew into a fear that I could not shake off.
With my father’s encouragement, I sold my possessions, packed a few keepsakes, said goodbye to the life I knew and returned to a country that I had left 30 years earlier.
I've considered blogging about that experience. Maybe even seeking out people in situations similar to mine. But that's not what I intend to do here.
After a period of adjustment, I made a new life for myself. All the while watching my parents get older, but living rather comfortably. They were very happy when a casino opened up locally. It was a good place to spend their retirement money. It was all very nice up until four years ago. Looking back at some family photos taken over those years, it was clear that my father was ill. He kept the severity of his illness secret, though he did complain often of some pain here and there, while self medicating and auto diagnosing himself after comparing symptoms with the neighbors.
My father had become quite addicted to gambling, and despite being in constant pain, he preferred to visit the casino instead of spending his gambling money on a doctor. I told him on his deathbed that he had literally gambled his life away and lost, he agreed with me. One of the few times he did so.
When he finally had no choice but to go to the hospital, the cancer had consumed him. Removal of the tumor that caused him so much pain did little to restore him back to health and a month and a half after being admitted into the hospital he died there. His care took a heavy toll on the whole family. Most of all on my mother, who, after 54 years of marriage was now alone and considerably older. I believe that caring for my father while he was interned, brought the weight of her age crashing down on her all at once. Despite her protests, Mom couldn't be left alone. And so, there I found myself, a middle aged woman taking care of her elderly mother.
Taking care of an elderly parent is not an easy thing, anyone who has done it, or is currently doing it, will testify to that. So, this is my journey, one I plan to record for as long as my mother remains with me.
