I'm currently staying at my mother's house in Westport, Connecticut for a week, getting dialysis in Fairfield while mom continues to dwindle from the double-whammy of aged decrepitude (she'll be 91 if she makes it to the end of next month) and cancer in both lungs, plus the debilitating chemotherapy that goes with the latter. She's off at chemo at the moment, so I have a few hours to myself.
While mom is off at chemo, I am looking over the house where I came of age, and it just feels like a sad and foreign place. If truth be told, while this is the residence where I came of age, it holds no sentimental attachment for me, as I could not wait to get out of here upon graduating from high school. When mom inevitably gets escorted to Valhalla, I will return here to settle her estate and se the house properly disposed of, but that will likely be my final appearance in Westport for any considerable length of time.
The sight of mom's tiny Christmas tree adds a note of wistfulness, as Christmas was always a big deal for her, and the thought that this very well could be her final Christmas absolutely guts me. Christmas hold no sacred meaning for me as, unlike my mother, religion holds no meaning for me, and I outgrew the fairytale of Santa Claus by the time I was nine, So I will be glad to be done with it. That said, this is a far cry from the lavish annual yuletide tree that mom would prop up and decorate. This year we both agreed that neither of us need anything, so no gifts, and the tree was always for her, so though it's meager, it serves the purpose of making mom happy. so that's all that matters.
Anyway, it's like a dollhouse gene-spliced with a mausoleum in here, and I am well past the limits of my tolerance for its ultra-pristine and cutesy atmosphere and I'm only two days into my stay of seven days. I pine for the noise and day-to-day madness of NYC and for the comfort of my own bed and pile of comforters whose texture does not rankle my dermatitis-irritated skin. I miss my autonomy, as every time I come here since leaving for NY in 1990, my every movement and word is judged and criticicized after being focused upon and analyzed with an unnerving laser-focus. I value the quiet environment of my humble Park Slope studio apartment, and the freedom to simply leave a room for a moment and not have that action questioned or complained about. Though it kicks her ass, her chemo session allows me a few hours free of my mother's obsessive/oppressive presence, and I am glad of it. I will take care of her when she returns and make sure she eats and rests, as she will be quite debilitated, but know that being stuck in this psychological/emotional torture garden that I fled nearly thirty-four years ago eats at my very being.
I love you, mom, and I will do my best to make your remaining time comfortable, but Sunday afternoon and me setting foot onto the Manhattan-bound Metro North train cannot happen soon enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment