Next of Kin

She called this morning.  She wanted a ride to the eye doctor. They were going to dilate her eyes today at the exam and with the rain she didn't know if she should drive.  I was both surprised and relieved mom admitted she might need a little help.

I arrived at her door and she was waiting impatiently.  She went to reach for the door of the truck and the handle wouldn't yield. She immediately began motioning for me to unlock the door and when I began to shake my head no, she grabbed at the door again while mouthing "Its locked."  But it wasn't.  I eased the truck into park to release the door handle and motioned for her to try the door again.  As she got in, I noticed the new rattling sound coming from the muffler of the truck.  I decided I'd better point it out to her before she told me she heard a funny sound.

But her hearing is not what it once was.  I told her the muffler was loud and she said she couldn't hear a thing, thankfully.  She still admonished me with "oh no, its brand new, it shouldn't be breaking down already?"

Herein lies the rub for me.  To her, new is anywhere from 5, 10, to 20 years ago.  We chide her constantly about her use of the word "new."  My brother once figured out her "brand new blue carpet", was 15 years old.  The truck is easily 8 years old.  Not new.  Repairs and maintenance are part of the picture.  But I don't want to have this talk with her again.

I assure her we will get the truck looked at and I try to focus on driving through the pouring rain.  But she isn't happy with my choice of routes.  "Why go this way?" she demands.  Its easier to go right, because this way the road is too bumpy.

Again, I save my speech and graciously turn to go the way she wants.  I hate this street I think to myself.  Its the path I took all those times I'd get the call at 1 am to come quickly.   Dad was agitated and thrashing about and she needed help in calming him down.  I am instantly taken back to those dark days traveling down this road, but I keep it to myself and drive on.

Two more times she questions the path I am taking.  And when I legally make a right turn into the proper lane, she is already telling me that it isn't the right one to to the clinic. But I already have my blinker on to make a proper lane change into the lane she is referring to.  "Oh,"  she says, "I see what you are doing."

As I focus on merging onto the highway she suddenly sees the time on the dashboard clock.  "Its 10:23 already, I'll be late at this rate."  Its fast, I assure her, 10 minutes fast.  You'll be there on time.  But the look on her face tells me she is still skeptical.

I go to drop her off.  As I bypass the long line of cars waiting to drop someone off at  the main entrance,  I see her raise her eyebrows... I cut her off with "Go in the side, you'll be on time because you will bypass all the others this way."  She casts a doubtful look my way and reaches for the door again before I get the truck in park.  I try to tell her how the door works, but she quickly snaps "I know that."

I bite my tongue, grip the steering wheel a little too tightly and drive away.

It was never like this with dad.  On the occasion I would drive him, I would ask him the best way to go, and he'd have the route nailed down to perfection.  He was the one who told me about the side door.  For a guy with an old beat up pick-up truck with little power steering, a bum knee that made him use a cane, and an oxygen tank tied to him as a faithful companion, the old man knew how to get around.  I am thinking of this as I calm my nerves on the drive home.

An hour later I go to pick her up.  She is chatty on the drive home which is a relief.  It takes all the focus off of me.  "Oh they are so nice to me.  They asked if Willard is still my next of kin, and I had to tell them he passed away on July 5th. The poor gal, looked like she was about to cry.  She asked if it was an unexpected death and I told her no.  But you are never really prepared for the end anyways, it still comes as a shock.  Anyway, I told her you are now my next of kin."  

And so I am.  In one succinct statement about Dad, we are unexpectedly back on the same page.   Her loss, my loss, are the same loss.  As I pull into her parking lot she mentions she is out of laundry soap.  I suddenly find myself asking if she'd like me to take her to get some.  "Yes," she replies.  "But not now.  I'm going to see if someone in the building wants that stand mixer of mine.  I got it for a wedding gift, (44 years ago) and its practically brand new."

I'm chuckling to myself as I head for home.

The Cliche

I may as well just start with it. If I just lead with it at least I can get past it. I had a college writing instructor tell us that when we were stuck in our writing we should just write "I am stuck" until the next thought came. And that even poor or weak writing can lead to brilliant writing. I just get stuck when the intial thought I have isn't brilliant. So I just don't start at all. So today I am trying... poorly perhaps. But trying. The journey continues here and now. As for the cliche? Well, I'm starting at the beginning.

A place to put it all...

I am so intrigued. I used to have to put pen to paper to express myself until I began avidly sending email. And more often now its the click of the keyboard and the hum of the tower that provides the background for my musings. I couldn't have imagined this for myself. And who knew creating a blog could be so easy! Now lets hope I have something to say. As much as I enjoy reading other's blogs... it occurred to me... perhaps others will want to read mine. I am afterall convinced most of us really do have a story to tell... including me. Now to begin.